


Babysitter Wanted

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Babysitter AU, Babysitter!Ben, Divorced George and Martha, Domestic Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parent!George, family stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-14
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 20:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10907115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Ben is looking for a summer job to help make ends meet, and George is looking for a babysitter. With kids and crafts and a hot dad, it's a recipe for disaster.(The baby sitting Ben AU that we all needed)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Babysitter AU. Look, we all wanted it, okay. Fluff ahead.

“Look what I found outside the room for my final,” Nate croons as he swings the door to their apartment open. Ben takes a glance up at him if only to make sure whatever he brought home wasn't alive.

But it's just a paper, something he can wave aggressively enough that Ben’ most definitely can’t read it across their miniscule living room. It doesn’t help that his eyes are blurred from lack of sleep and his fingers only just _now_ hit submit on the very last paper he had to choke up to round out the first semester of his two-year masters program. “What is it?” He asks, almost cringing at the wrecked sound of his own voice.

“A job.” There’s a sing-song tone to his roommate’s voice as Nate drops it into Ben’s waiting hand. Ben knows, very much, that it is not for Nate. Nate, and all his ineffable, yet somehow annoyingly lazy, brilliance managed to snag a summer internship at a museum while Ben scrambled ahold of his part-time, late-night gig at a cheap 24-hour diner.

And of course it wouldn’t come close to being enough to cover his loans from his undergrad, his books for his next semester, _and_ rent for the summer. Hence, the flyer in his hands. Nate explains: “I saw it and just figured you’d be interested. It's hours aren’t what you work on weekdays so like, it’s good, yeah? You said you wanted a second job for the summer, bro.”

It’s the sort of flyer with the tear-away strips of paper, but Nate appeared to have gone the extra mile.

“Did you...rip the whole thing down?”

“Yeah. Only one other slip was gone, figured it bettered your chances. Call them, I’m gonna go pass out finally.”

Ben actually stops to give the paper a read-through.

_Seeking babysitter for weekdays over summer._

_Beginning June 5th and lasting every alternating week until August 21st._

_Must be available from 9am to 5:30pm._

_Will be looking after two (2) children, girl and boy aged 7 and 5_

_Please Call after 6:30pm._

There was a number and a pay listed at the bottom of the flyer as well, just neatly printed in Times New Roman. Ben peers up and down it again, then over the back of the couch towards Nate again, squinting at where he disappeared into the kitchen and was now half asleep, microwaving leftover Chinese.

“I’ll call soon.”

“Why not now?” But it sounds more like whhrrrnrrrr, given the way Nate buries his face in the arms he has crossed on the countertop.

“Not after six-thirty yet,” Ben explains, but really it’s only partially, mostly an excuse. Yeah, really he does need the job. Moreso, he needs the _money._ And babysitting wouldn’t be the hardest thing he would do. He’s got a summer class starting in June and he really does want to get ahead with next semester’s readings, and sure babysitting would probably lend him more time than not to maybe get some of that done than picking up more shifts at the diner, or getting another waiter gig. And, it would quite literally be from nine-to-five, giving him time between the couple days a week he works at the diner at like nine or ten.

But at the same time, the whole thing was stiff and weirdly formal. Cold, kinda, for someone looking for someone to take care of their children. It’s too the point, sure, but it’s on stiff, white paper. It’s got a pricey few numbers at the bottom as the per-week promise of _a lot_ of money. It would actually double what Ben usually makes a week, if he doesn’t wear those really tight pants, of course.

But at the same time: “What if it’s a scam to murder me and sell my organs?”

“Well you won’t know if you don’t try.”

This time, it’s around a mouthful of food. Ben chews his lip and sets it aside, rolling his shoulders and shutting his laptop. “We’ll see.”

We’ll see lasted until 6:25. Nate was snoring in his own room, sleeping off a three-day bender of studying and papers and really, Ben should be doing the same thing. He should be buried deep in pillows, resting heavily on the knowledge that he doesn’t have to work until Saturday afternoon and maybe he can even squeeze in a tiny bit of fun between now and then. After all, he is sitting on his bed, cross-legged and fully pressed, but actually in it. He should enjoy it while he can. But there’s only ten days until the end of the month. Ten days until the end of the month, and he can make it through June 1st, but July is gonna break the bank, he can already feel it. And he can already feel the gentle whirr of the AC threatening to shatter the nice and tepid electric bills they’ve been having for the past few months.

It’s 6:31 when he calls.

The phone rings twice before a low and smoothy authoritative voice picked up and asked, well, more actually just stated,“This is George Washington.”

“Uh,” was Ben’s cool and measured reply. “Hi, er, Hello. I’m calling about your flyer, the babysitting job? My name’s Ben, by the way, Ben Tallmadge.”

There’s a pause, and in the background Ben can hear something distantly that sounds like exciting, childish, shouting. At least, he thinks there might actual be kids. Washington takes another second, before making a noise. “Apologies, Mr. Tallmadge, is it?”

“Yes, or Ben is fine, or even Benjamin if your prefer, sir.” Sir? Fuck. Now he’s being too formal, isn’t he? Ben get’s up sharply, suddenly overcome with the urge to pace the length of his bedroom.

“Would you mind answering a few questions for me now, in order to assess if we should consider an in-person interview? There have been a few cases already where I’ve discovered that it is better we don’t waste each other’s time.”

He doesn’t stutter when he responds: “Of course.” But he does flinch. A little. This dude sounds...well...uptight. A little. The previously soothing sounds of happy children faded as Washington, presumably, walked into another room.

“To begin, of course, how old are you and what previous childcare experiences do you have?”

“I’m twenty-two and I have two younger brothers who I watched a lot when I was a teenager. They were four and six years younger than me. And I’ve watched a lot of my nieces and nephews over the years, from about infancy to just a month or so ago, when one of them was nine and the other about six.”

There’s a little hum on the other end and Ben genuinely cannot tell of it’s in appreciation or disdain. It kinda makes his skin itch, if only a little. “Have you ever been convicted of a crime?”

“Uh. No, never.”

“Just to be clear, you are saying this fully aware that I have the resources to check?”

Intense, okay. “I mean, I’m not lying to you, sir.”

“Good.”

Ben really wants to ask _who lied?_ But he’s pretty sure it’d be really inappropriate, so he doesn’t and instead just tucks his fidgeting hand under his arm and waits for the next question. That urge to impress and excel rearing it’s ugly head deep in his gut. George doesn’t make a noise, but Ben can hear the soft and distant scrape of pencil on paper, as though he’s taking notes. He waits really, as patiently as he can.

But it only gets to be so much before he cracks and asks something, anything just to break the sudden quiet. He picks: “So, how stable are the hours? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Fairly stable. If you have engagements at night and I need to work late I can either have their mother come get them or have you drop them off at her home.”

“I just...work a second job some nights.”

A pause in the scratching and Ben feels suddenly like he’s really said the wrong thing. But Washington just asks, “What is it you do?”

“I wait tables at the 24-hour diner over on 5th ave. Usually it’s just on weekend’s but sometimes it’s nights during the week, but never earlier than nine or ten.”

“Ah.”

He doesn’t say anything else the entire, short, break this time. Finally, after what might have been literal hours of waiting for the whole fifteen seconds it was, Ben finally hears a static-y sigh. “Would you be available for an in-person interview this Friday afternoon at three?”

It fuzzes around in Ben’s head for a second, because he can’t really believe that this guy must be this desperate. “Sure, yeah. Totally.” Washington confirms the time again, and then lets Ben scramble for a pen and a piece of paper (the back of the cover sheet of a draft he had barely had time to do any editing for) to write down his address. He hangs up without barely more than a parting _see you then_ and Ben gets that same urge to please feeling he gets anytime he makes vague eye-contact with a professor.

Well. He did it. He did it, he tells himself as he drops his cellphone. He’s got at least an interview for a second job, he turned in his last paper, and Friday is still two days away, which means he has plenty of time to pass out. Part of him knows he should probably thank Nate for picking the flyer off the door, another part of thing thinks he should buy him dinner - but right now the fair majority is taking over and demanding that he roll over onto his stomach and sleep.

So, for the first time in like two fucking days, he does. No need to fret over the interview yet, Friday is ages away.

Friday comes way faster than Ben expected. More specifically, Friday at two-fifteen comes way faster than Ben expected. Mr. Washington lives in the nicer suburbs just a twenty-five minute bike ride from Ben and Nate’s apartment, near a little hub of shopping centers and yoga studios that Ben’s never so much as breathed near in his six months living there. It’s nothing particularly fancy or exciting, but Ben still spends about an hour or so before his marked ‘leaving time’ swapping outfits in front of his 5.99 door mirror he’s had since his freshman dorm.

Regular jeans felt too casual, and so did a t-shirt. But a blazer was probably overdoing it, and it was too hot out to layer a sweater over a button-up. But, well, he didn’t actually have much else. His wardrobe was bare-bones thrift store finds, things that could get him through his TAing during the school year and his classes. He worked the diner in black jeans and a solid-color polo and was as regimented as his outfits had ever gotten. Chewing on his lip, he fishes out a fairly decent dark shirt and a lighter one.

But did he really want to risk pit stains from biking? Well there was always the slightly obvious. Still holding his options, Ben pokes his head into the hall, far enough to peek into his roommate’s room. “Nate, can I borrow your car for my interview? It’ll be like an hour and I’ll tank up for you.”

Nate doesn’t even lift his head from his post-finals hangover-blur before he groans out, “Keys are on the table. Break a leg or something.”

And with that settled, he opts for the the lighter blue. It layers well over his dark work pants, it’s not too formal, and most importantly, it doesn’t make him look like an absolute dick. “Okay,” he tells his reflection, with a deep, deep breath.

Deep breaths put him at the gas station, on the road, and right outside the address Mr. Washington gave him twice for good measure. It’s a nice place. The sort of three-bedroom, two-bath that his parents might have owned. Two stories, a little wooden fence wrapping around the back of it. Probably holding in a yard or a pool or something. It’s got a small, green, lawn and a small porch covered in chalk drawings and dotted with the occasional broken pieces. A driveway and a garage. It’s all very unassuming, very cookie-cutter on the outside. Ben checks, again, that it’s the right house before parking neatly and slipping out of Nate’s car.

The drawings get more clear from there. Sun’s and flowers and smiley faces. It all forms a big long and mottled scene with cars and trucks and stick-figure princesses. At the base of the walkway that leads to the front door, what appears to be the end of the mural of chalk, are three names in large, clear, and uniform writing: Patsy, Jack, and George.

Ben very carefully steps around it to get to the door. Whatever image he had of the person who so carefully wrote out the names on the sidewalk is proved very wrong soon after Ben knocks on the door. He had imagined someone with a salt-and-pepper look, small with smile lines starting around his eyes. Unassuming and welcoming and very unlike what he was like on the phone.

Who answers the door, however, is not. He’s tall, that’s for damn sure. Broad shoulders filling out the frame and lips pinched into a frown that he thinks might just be perpetual. If he is old enough to go grey, it isn’t overpowering. “Benjamin Tallmadge, I assume?” He asks, and it’s that same low voice from the phone, except really when attached to that body it makes a hell of a lot more sense. Ben extends a hand, heart rattling nervously around in his chest.

“Yes, sir. You must be Mr. Washington.”

He takes it. His hand is massive and his grip is strong enough to put Ben’s well-practiced one to shame. “Please,” he insists, with a sort of distant sense of force casualness, “George is more than acceptable.” He steps aside to let him in.

The inside barely reflects the pristine sort of manicure from the exterior. It bears all the signs of being newly-moved into if Ben looks close enough, but at the very first glance it’s a well-loved home. There’s a pile of blocks half-built with on the floor, a pile of shoes in bright purples, blues, pinks, and greens alongside a neat set of brown. Already pictures dot the entryway, a girl and a boy that Ben figures is the kids the flyer mentioned. The tiled hall follows down, breaking at an arch on one side for what appears to be a living room, with stairs and a kitchen on the other end. Well, stairs, a kitchen, and two curious faces peering from around the corner of the kitchen. One with a mess of dark hair sticking up at odd angles, and another with long auburn braids. The both of them had bright blue eyes and a smattering of freckles, and both of them vanished immediately back around when Ben gave them a little wave. Judging by the speed with which Mr. Wash-George, he reminded himself, George whipped his head back around to where they were, they probably weren’t supposed to be there.

“Those would be Patsy and Jonathan. Patsy is the eldest and most insidious troublemaker, Jack is her too-willing cohort.”

Ben nods stiffly before remembering that he should probably seem a little bit more open and fun if he’s trying to land a summer gig babysitting, of all things. So he lets himself smile a little, especially as one, who judging by the braids and the bravery Ben assumes to be Patsy, sticks her head back out to watch. He doesn’t out her this time. “They seem like great kids.”

George points out, “You haven’t met them.”

Okay. Fair. Ben shuffles his feet a little, and the girl is once again gone from the doorway. She seems like a quick study, but also more certainly one to keep an eye on. “I hope to. Meet them, that is. I’m pretty good with kids.”

It goes fairly smoothly from there. They end up in the living room, where Ben only barely avoids sitting on a stuffed lion and a plastic truck when he’s motioned to sit on the couch. There’s a stack of DVD’s next to the TV, a tangled knot of blankets and some scattered pillows from what looks like a movie night still laying around. And Ben would set the resume he brought down on the coffee table, but it’s covered end-to-end with a half-constructed pile of legos that are turning into...certainly something.

George just takes it himself and asks him a general overview of everything else he’s been asked, questions a little more at his nieces and nephews, just a fraction more casually than he had on the phone. Once it clears through, he gets more into the inevitable duties. “I’m a corporate lawyer, so occasionally there will be late nights. As I said, you would not be required to stay later than six-thirty on any given night, but you will be compensated should you. Martha, their mother, have an arrangement should she need to step in for late nights, and all you would need to do is make sure they’re ready to go. The time span on the flyer was for their summer vacation, so there’s no need to take them to school or pick them up during the entire time.” He pauses, ostensibly for a breath. “Do you have any questions.”

Honestly: Ben has a million and one. But he drinks in how frazzled George actually looks now that he’s had a moment to actual just look at him. The collar of his shirt is slightly uneven, his hair isn’t as immaculately pushed back as it appeared when he arrived. Maybe it’s just the influence of the room around them, a little chaotic in terms of toys and books and things simply being everywhere, reflecting on him. Maybe it’s just the more that George talks, the less at ease he seems.

But where he was first cold and uncomfortable, instead there’s a little flicker of something. Something. Whatever it is, Ben doesn’t really know. But he boxes up most of his questions for now (a bunch of idle things already half-answered by previous conversation and just asks: “Have you had a lot of other applicants?”

“Acceptable ones? No. And I am aware that my standards are…often intense.”

Ben crinkles his nose, forgetting his well-ingrained manners for a second. “I’m not sure that experience and no jail-time is really intense standards for a babysitter. I mean, it’s for your kids, sir, it’s probably good to have higher standards for them anyway.”

George hums, something low and quiet before he stands from his position on the couch, just a little before some distant crash and a shriek that could really either be joy or fear. Acting on that instinct imbedded in him from watching toddlers, Ben’s on his feet before he can processes it, but George holds out a hand, stopping him from darting into the other room. Instead, the girl from before skids into the living room doorway, big eyes full of glistening tears.

“Da _aaaaaad,_ Jacky knocked over his juice and it got all over me!”

The accusation is too much for Jack to stay hidden for apparently and he skitters out to defend himself. “She knocked it over herself! She wanted to see the man!”

There’s a change over George. Something that Ben hadn’t actually anticipated seeing. For a second, he gets that image of the father he imagined crouching down to draw on the driveway. He crosses his arms in a stern sort of appearance but, despite his size and height there’s nothing deeply intimidating about it. Patsy’s lower lip wobbles, and she ducks her head and Ben sees exactly what’s going on here. This guy’s pushing six-four and he is wrapped around the finger of this seven year old. George unfolds his arms, and stoops down, scooping Patsy into his arms with what looks like actual no effort.

“Patsy this is Mr. Ben, I’m considering him to be your babysitter this summer and maybe we would be able to talk to him for a little bit, but now we have to take you to get changed because you’re covered in apple juice.”

Ben waves. She waves back, cheek pressed against her dad's shoulder. George glances back, “Do you mind making sure Jack doesn’t get into any trouble down here? Consider it your trial period.”

“‘Course? I mean, sure, yeah.”

George grunts, and starts out for the stairs, leaving Ben alone with the five year old, who is now more or less hiding behind a wall. He crouches, ignoring how tired his knees are already, and says: “Hey, you must be Jacky right?”

From behind the wall, there’s a quiet muttering.

“I’m sorry, buddy, I can’t hear you back there.”

Inch by inch, Jack emerges, chin tucked tightly against his chest. “I said only my sister calls me Jacky. You can too though, if you want.”

“Do you like Jack better?”  Jack nods and Ben gives him the biggest, most honest smile he can muster, sticking his hand out to shake. “Then Jack it is. I’m Mr. Ben.”

He takes it only slightly hesitantly, a little squeeze and then a drop back and skitter backwards.

Ben’s knees are fucking killing him.

“Are these your legos, Jack?” He gets a tiny little mmhmm. “Can you show me what you’re building?”

There’s another bout of hesitation, a few more tiny-footed shifts, before Jack finally comes forward to the coffee table. He settles in and Ben crosses his legs sitting down across from him. He starts in quietly, talking about rooms and space ships and places to keep the monsters. Ben listens with strict intent, nodding and offering questions like “what if you reinforced the wall so no monsters can burst through?” and “Do you part the spaceship in the garage with the car? A personal spaceship parking garage? That’s brilliant!”

He gets so caught up, he doesn’t notice George come back downstairs, Patsy in tow. He doesn’t notice him leaning against the doorway, or the the quiet look of acceptance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben's first day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cute's Ahead.

Ben’s first day comes almost three weeks after that afternoon. He had ended up staying almost an hour after, helping Jack snap Lego pieces into place and answering all of Patsy’s questions as she conducted her own little interview of him.

They consisted of things like:

_What grade are you in? 17th, starting 18th I think._

And _Do you have kids too? Oh no, I don’t._

All-in-all, Ben managed to pass both of those. He bikes in on his first day, more than thankful he’s gotten the actual dress code ( _Whatever you want to wear is fine, Benjamin. Presuming, of course, it is clothing)._ George had told him to come by a little early, wanting to go over a few house rules, give him a list of numbers just in case anything might happen. And, of course, given how stringent he was about finding the right sitter Ben figures the list could probably go on for a while.

He pulls up just after eight-thirty in the morning, only feeling half-dead. Fully dressed, messenger bag full of literally anything he might need over his shoulder. It’s got his keys, his wallet, laptop and chargers -- in addition to a couple coloring books he found at the dollar store a block down from his place and some crayons. He’s pretty sure kids like that stuff.

After a careful moment or two of deliberation, Ben parks his bike next to the garage and unclips his helmet, shaking his hair out a little. When he knocks, he’s fairly cognizant that George would most likely be leaving for work in about half an hour. He knows he’s a lawyer, knows he works at a firm downtown. He’s got all that information and yet, when George answers the door he’s almost rendered fucking speechless. He’d been dressed somewhat nicely, in a well-fitted polo and dark pants, when they met a few weeks ago but he hadn’t anticipated this. A suit cut almost immaculately to his body, not a hair out of place, and such an attentive shine to his shoes that Ben might actually be able to catch his reflection.

He looks...intense. It highlights the catch of his lips as they curve downward while George fiddles with his watch. “Good, you’re here,” is all he says by way of greeting, stepping aside. “I’d called a few minutes ago to make sure you were on your way, but you didn’t pick up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I rode my bike today so I left my phone in my bag.” Ben can really only describe the way he gets into the house as _skittering,_ while he fishes his phone out. Sure enough, one missed call from George. He’d saved his number after that interview, make sure to keep it on hand. What he gets, of course, is another one of those quiet hums as George shuts the door behind them.

Then, George slips back into business, leading Ben towards the slightly chaotic-sounding kitchen. “Martha dropped them off last night, but she typically does it Monday mornings on her way to work. They’ve just sat down for breakfast, so they’re temporarily occupied. I’ve left a list of numbers with reasons to call any of them, including my office number, my extension, Martha’s number, Alexander--my assistant’s number. Both his desk and his personal cell, should it be an emergency and you can’t get ahold of me otherwise. There is also a small list of things I thought you should know: allergies, bedtimes, things they are not allowed to watch, do, say, or eat. It should be fairly intuitive, no sugar close to bedtime, nothing violent or explicit on TV, you should more or less assume if Patsy is ‘informing’ you about a rule or a change to a rule, it’s probably not true.” He even did air quotes around _informing._ Ben’s almost concerned that he might have actually never left the kids alone before. As if reading his mind, George’s frown suddenly deepens.

“I apologize if I’m being...neurotic. Martha has always been better at these things.”

And Ben doesn’t actually know what to say, except: “They’ll be fine.”

“I know. I should really be going too, I have an early meeting with a client.” George fusses with his watch again, this time checking it before heading into the kitchen. Ben hovers around the doorway, watching him skillfully dodge a sticky-fingered Patsy’s swipe at his white shirt as he ruffles her hair and kisses the crown of her head. “Be good you two, I don’t want to hear anything from Mr. Ben tonight telling me that you’ve been mean to him. Okay?”

He’s met with a chorus of “Yes dad!” Chirpped from the two, Jack’s coming as George hunches down from behind his chair and presses a fast kiss to his temple. It looks almost physically painful for him to tear himself away, and Ben feels a flashing spark of pity in his gut at that, but he does.

And it’s almost eerily quiet when he leaves. Patsy’s legs swing idly as she considers Ben and Jack, still shy as ever, pokes his neon-green fork into a meticously cut pancake absolutely soaked in syrup. “So, are we gonna have fun today?” Ben asks, trying to cut through the suddenly-thick atmosphere with a little morning cheer.

Patsy shrugs one shoulder. “Me n’ Jacky got to go to the library and they gave us cards to write down how much reading we do and if we do enough we get a toy, so mommy let us pick out books to read while we’re here but I don’t think I can read all day because my eyes’ll fall out.” She at least gives Ben a quarter second to process that before she points to the plate in the middle of the table. “Do you want a pancake, Mr. Ben? Daddy made lots this morning and he makes the best pancakes.”

“I’m okay, but thank you.” He takes a seat anyway, setting his bag down next to the table. “So you guys like to read, huh? What kind of books do you like?”

Jack mumbles, and Ben has to strain a little to hear: “I like books about dinosaurs.”

He makes a mental note before Patsy swings in to talk about how much Jack likes dinosaurs, listing all the dino-themed shirts and toys and birthday parties he’s had. He listens, for a bit, as she switches gears to talk about how much she likes dolphins and horses and the books she got about those at the library with her mom.

They only talk for a bit before Ben gently reminds her that she should probably finish her breakfast before it got cold. Especially since Jack was pretty much done. Suddenly realizing that she was letting those amazing pancakes go to waste, Patsy goes back to digging in while Ben slips free to find the lists George left him. They’re both on the counter, the one with the numbers neatly tucked under a spare key that the attached note assures is for his use should they need to go anywhere, along with the house alarm code.

The lists themselves are fairly straight forward, Ben puts the numbers on the fridge for now and scans over the other one.

 

_Allergies: None severe enough to warrant potential hospitalization, but Patsy will break out into a rash when/where bitten by mosquitos. There is bug spray in the master bathroom, along with cream should she get too itchy._

_Food Restrictions: No/minimal sugar an hour before bedtime. If Eliza ever brings over fudge, Jack can have three peices. Sugery drinks only after noon, and only one per day._

_There is cash for pizza next to the stove for lunch and/or dinner, I doubt there is much for cooking in the cupboards currently. Typically, I would prefer they had some sort of vegetable or fruit with their meals, combined with some semblance of an attempt to coerce them into eating them._

 

It continues on from there and Ben keeps an eye on the two clearing their plates as he mentally catalogues what he needs to know. Bedtime is at eight-thirty on summer schedules, which Ben only has to really know if George is going to be late, no TV until they’ve done their reading and chores (combined with a list of course of what should be done), they are not permitted in the master bedroom or bathroom alone, but Ben can use it whenever he wishes. The list is the full size of one page and half of another, handwritten neatly with annotations in certain places and addendums made in bullet-points. The back half is pretty much entirely rules dedicated to the in-ground pool that Ben only barely noticed in the yard after George pointed it out last time he was there.

It’s all things to focus on and study, though and right now he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have the time considering he’s already lost Jack.

Well. Fuck. Okay, don’t panic. Don’t panic. He can feel how wild his eyes are as he whips his head around looking for the five year old, but he could’ve gotten anywhere. Upstairs, outside, out the back or the front or--Patsy points to the counter and Ben finally spots the top of a dark head on the other side of it. Jack comes into view, raising to probably his tip-toes to deposit his plastic plate and utensils into the sink carefully.

And it’s good to know what a heart attack feels like, Ben figures, trying to time his exhale so he doesn’t just collapse onto the tile flooring.

It’s even listed under Jack’s chores. Clearing the table.

One hiccup out of the way, Ben figures that’s got to be the last of it. But somehow, in the time it takes him to scrub what is probably half a bottle of maple syrup off two plastic plates (and one glass one that Ben can only assume belonged to George before he left), and rinse off some other dishes left in the sink, World War Three breaks out surrounding a hogged red crayon. It’s barely brought down from nuclear status when Ben procures the box he’d found at the store from his bag for Patsy to use. Once it settles down, Ben checks his phone’s clock.

Forty-six minutes down.

He gets himself a little more comfortable on the couch, watching Jack settle in at the coffee table to color while Patsy nabs a blanket from a corner chair and makes a little nest at Ben’s feet to read. It’s quiet for, what Ben can only assume will be about twenty minutes - so he takes full advantage to fish out his laptop.

Patsy eyes him suspiciously as soon as the MacBook touches air. “Whatcha doin’, Mr. Ben?”

“I’m checking my e-mail to make sure no one really needs to ask me a question.”

She looks interested, closing her book carefully around her dolphin bookmark. “Like what kind of questions?”

“Well,” Ben starts, trying to think of the best way to explain this to a seven year old. “I work at the college during school, I help the professors there teach classes and sometimes students need to e-mail me before or after class starts because they want to know something about their grades, or something about the class next year. Also, sometimes the teachers I work with need to tell me things.”

“What kind of things.”

“If they change what books they want to read that year, or if they need me to send a new list of students to the people in charge of knowing where all the students are.”

“What books do they read?”

It goes in a circle like that, with Ben explaining some of the sorts of books students had to read for some of the classes he TA’d for. In child-like and acceptable ways, of course. _Books about women from Brazil_ instead of _Books about Inquisition trials aganinst Native women in Brazil._ It lasts until she gets bored and starts drifting, and finally goes back to finishing her daily reading. She has Ben sign off on the sheet from the library, also demanding a note from him to the librarian assuring her that he is her babysitter, and that he was the one to wittness it.

Between those things, of course, Jack shyly shares his drawings. There’s one with him, Patsy, and George, all holding hands under a two-lined roof lovingly labeled “Daddy’s House.” One of them and who Ben assumes is Martha in “Mommy’s House.” They go through a few more as Ben finishes replying to what he needs to reply to and sets his lapop aside.

When George comes home, it strikes Ben as a surprise. There’s leftover pizza in the kitchen, half-eaten and picked at but he hadn’t so much as checked a clock since just before five. Jack’s shrieking as Ben slids around a corner in his socks, snatching him up and spinning him around under his arm. Patsy’s bouncing on her heels waiting for her turn, laughing so hard he’s almost worried she’ll choke. He’s not sure if it’s at the look on Jack’s face or the airplane noises Ben’s making but she’s absolutely dying with delight. So much so, that they missed the sound of a car approaching, of George’s key in the lock.

It isn’t until Ben spins around again and see’s a fourth person in the living room that they realize that George is home. Ben tightens his grip on Jack just to make sure that he doesn’t wriggle out and face-plant (again) before Ben can set him down. But he’s off like a wind-up as soon as his feet touch ground, launching at George’s legs while Patsy wraps her arms around him as much as she can.

And Ben gets his reviews pretty much instantly.

“Daddy! Mr. Ben knows _everything!”_

“Daddy daddy! Mr. Ben colored with us and he’s really good at coloring, he’s better than you.”

“Mr. Ben showed us how to make fortune-tellers with paper!”

“We got _pizza!”_

George only barely manages to detangle himself from the tiny hands long enough to scoop Jack into a tight hug, and then Patsy in turn. “Weere you good for Mr. Ben?”

The twin replies sound off: “Yes, daddy!” George glances up for confirmation and Ben nods with probably a little too much enthusiasm. There was only a few mild battles, getting Jack to make his bed before watching TV and somehow reaching an agreement on what toppings to get on the pizza. Their tiny minds were blown to learn that you could order a pizza with specific toppings _only_ on half. But, it didn’t seem like the kind of things that needed to be mentioned. No one needed anything besides a solution to calm down.

They’re still talking over one another as George sets his briefcase down and takes his shoes off. Jack manages to practically cement himself to George’s arm, hanging off him with all his might. He watches for a second before melting away from the scene and packing his things back up. He leaves the half-opened coloring books and the box of crayons, because he’s not a monster and tucks his laptop and chargers back into his messenger bag. Although, he’s not actually sure if he should just up and go or hang around and talk to George a bit.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to think long. George clears his throat as soon as Ben’s fingers brush the fabric of his bag strap. “Normally I would say you could leave as soon as I come home but I was hoping you would stay for a few minutes to discuss how the first day went.”

Oh thank God. Ben agrees in an instant, letting George direct the kids to the living room while they steal back into the kitchen. On some sort of instinct, Ben starts putting the pizza box and paper plates away.

“You know you’re not required to clean up this much,” George says, with a sort of faintly airy tone that suggests he might be joking.

Ben just shrugs. “The kids aren’t too much of a handful, and I find less mess makes them less antsy to cause troubles.”

“You say now. So they behaved themselves? And you did find my lists, correct?”

“I did and they did. I mean, we had one minor meltdown about washing up for dinner but it only lasted as long as it took me to wash my own hands. It was good, it was fun.”

“So you’d like to continue, then? As their sitter?”

Ben pauses, mainly at the low-level of desperation in George’s voice. Can it really be that hard to find someone willing to stick around? He frowns, staring at the grease-stained box he was putting in George’s open hands. “Of course, have you had someone bail on them already?”

“Their nanny previously, William. He watched them for most of their childhood, over summers and picking them up when Patsy started school and then Jack. He commuted a distance for us, and once he learned he would need to go much farther, well, he continues working for Martha but he could not come all the way out here.”

Oh. “That must’ve been hard on them.” Ben says it low enough that he hopes even Patsy, who is sure to be eavesdropping, can’t hear. And George nods, just the faintest bit, before watching Ben with those cool and calculating eyes.

“They do seem to like you, however. If they didn’t cause any troubles, you can go home. I’m sure you’d very much appreciate a little quiet.”

It almost incites a small riot, but Ben manages to get out of the house and back on his bike, peddling slowly home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben takes Thing One and Thing Two shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to comp-lady for giving me the low down on these penny horses and the seemingly supernatural connection between children and them.

The rest of the week is just as easy, if not entirely exhausting, and Ben is more than happy to spend his entire next week off sleeping in and not having to keep track of two incredibly, incredibly active children. Once Monday hit, it was like the rest of the week just collapsed in on itself, condensing down into the blink of an eye and next thing he knew Ben was fishing up his graveyard shift clearing tables on Sunday night and trying to do the math to see how late he can sleep and still show up to George’s looking like a real person.

Which isn’t much. Monday doesn’t suck as much as it can, but Tuesday is spent with the kids pulling at the hem of his shirt asking if they can  _ pretty pretty pretty pretty please go swimming?  _ Ben only feels super guilty at their big eyes and wobbling lips but it looks like it might rain and honestly, he didn’t bring his suit. 

Patsy tried to ply him with one of George’s, saying she knows perfectly well where her dad keeps his swim trunks and Ben has half a second where he’s imagining what George looks like in a wet, sagging, swim suit. Only half a second though because seriously, what the fuck is his head doing. He wrangles them down with a promise of once it's sunny for more than two days in a row.

Which is upsetting, considering it absolutely pours on Wednesday. 

It stays dreary and dark and dull all evening once it peeters out, and the kids are very clearly very bored. For the first time, a week and a half in, Ben has to report one very tearful time-out and also apologize heavily for George’s now-broken coffee mug. 

Thursday is the worst by far, however. It starts with a crack of thunder waking Ben up a solid hour and a half before his alarm, lightening slicing through the darkened morning brought about by insistent cloud cover. The downpour doesn’t stop as he quietly makes his way through the apartment, some distant and childish fear of electrocution leading him to a ridiculously quick shower before he starts his coffee at nearly six in the morning. It’s probably better to be up early, right?

He goes through the routines he doesn’t typically have time for (though, if Patsy gets distracted and Jack tires himself out he can sometimes swing it), like checking his emails, finishing up his readings for his online class.

It’s just half an hour or so into it when Nate wakes up, zombie-shuffling past him to the kitchen and returning with coffee. “It’s pouring fucking rain,” he points out, as if Ben doesn’t see that from the window. “You shouldn’t bike. Take my car, I’ll call,” he pauses for a yawn, “someone for a ride to the museum.” 

“You don’t need to do that. I can take a cab, or just wear my rain jacket.” His own coffee is lukewarm by now, but he thinks in light of Nate’s recent kind offer it would probably be rude to ask him to top it off while he’s up. Doesn’t stop him from trying though.

“Get fucked,” is the response that comes as Nate folds himself next to Ben on the couch. “Also just grab the keys off the table, dude. I already texted Scott for a ride anyway. Besides, my coworkers can drive, yours are like three.”

“Five and seven.”

“Oh great, so they can drive then, right?”

Ben scoffs. “Fine. Thank you.” There’s a pause, filled only by the sounds of Nate sipping his coffee and the distant storm. It stays for a few comfortable moments before Nate mutters something about nature calling and heaves himself up, leaving Ben back alone on the couch. He feels guilty, sure, about taking what was just freely offered but also there’s that tingling little knot in his gut that reminds him that he really can’t afford to take a cab all the way out to George’s. At least not until he gets paid. And getting his bike through all this rain and mud would be nothing short of a goddamn miracle. Hell, and that’s even with George picking up the tab on dinners the last three nights (which, in all fairness they were pizza, pasta dredged from the back of the pantry, and then leftovers). 

He’ll have to do something nice for Nate.

It’s about twenty minutes before he usually leaves with his bike when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He’s not entirely surprised to see George’s name flash up on his caller ID. Maybe a tiny bit surprised, actually, but it’s been less than a week. Maybe George was sick, or one of the kids was, and Ben wasn’t needed today. 

He slides to answer the call as he thinks, pressing the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Benjamin, it’s George. I believe you may have noticed that the weather is substantially awful this morning.”

“I have, in fact.” He almost tells him about how it woke him up early, but whatever part of him knows what restraint is still stops him. “Is it going to be an issue today?”

“Not with--well maybe with--I’ll touch on that later. You weren’t planning on taking your bike this morning, were you? I thought I could send a cab for you, or if you were capable of having them, take them to you. It seems dangerous to bike through this. I could also--” He cuts himself off and Ben’s really curious to what he was about to say. Traitorously, his brain provides the idea that George would come get him. Leaving himself and his suit-clad, broad-shouldered, stern-faced boss alone. 

His boss. His  _ boss.  _ The literal father of the kids he’s watching. Which provides a number of problems with the fantasy that threatens to wheedle its way into the back of Ben’s mind, any one of them a total show-stopper. It’s only once he’s banished it totally that he realizes just how long he’s been quiet for. 

“Ben?” George asks, and he can practically hear the way his lips pinch down into a tight frown.

He winces on his side. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve actually got a, uh, I’m borrowing my roommates car so it’s not a problem, actually. But thank you, seriously.”

Another one of his hums. But instead of changing the topic, George actually follows it up with something. “It wouldn’t do for my babysitter to get hit by a car or end up catching pnumonia, would it? I’ll see you at nine, then?”

“Yeah. Maybe a couple minutes earlier, even, to really be on time.”

“Well we’re up, so feel free.” He hangs up soon after that and Ben takes a moment to digest the lump in his stomach. It’s obviously just because George was being incredibly nice to him. Obviously. He really struck gold with this family. Watching them, that is. He struck gold watching them. 

Announcing to the near-empty house (and namely Nate who was taking a fearlessly long shower) that he was leaving early to get coffee on his way before he finishes packing up his bag and heads out. Even grabbing Starbucks from the packed as fuck drive through doesn’t burn enough time that he isn’t really early to pull into George’s driveway. Of course, by really early, he mean’s about fifteen minutes. He takes his time making sure he’s got everything, and the storm managed to die down to just a little downfall of fat water drops. Just enough to make him hurry from driveway to nice covered stoop. 

“Glad to see you dry,” George greets and, just like the last week, he’s impeccably dressed. He promises that he doesn’t always, but there are clients to woo now and there’s no quickly changing into a better suit at the office when they meet him at the bottom floor. Or, at least that’s what he tells Ben. 

“Glad to be so, sir.” Even if he’s a little damp. It’s only a little. “Even a little early too.”

George leans a little forward and Ben steps back to let him, his eyes flicker over to the affectionately-called rustbucket parked in his driveway. He doesn’t say anything about it as he retreats from the doorway and back into the house. Ben tries not to get water or mud on the floor following but it's sorta impossible. He makes a mental note to wipe it up. The kids are obviously up, this time only just now sitting down to breakfast, Jack sleepily pushing cereal around in a bowl. Ben gets a tired little “hmmf” in response to his “good morning!” 

Of course, George sweeps in to clarify. “He didn’t get much sleep last night. Not a huge fan of storms.”

Jack grumbles something under his breath about not being a baby, but doesn’t push the envelope. Not when Ben just ruffles his hair and then, as per usual, gives Patsy her demanded morning hug. Luckily, cereal means no sticky fingers in his hair today. “So,” he asks them, letting George retreat back upstairs to finish getting ready for work, “any fun plans for today?”

“I was hopin’ it’d stop raining so we can swim,” Patsy admits with a tight frown. “But Daddy brought  _ Cars  _ home yesterday because Mommy has it and Jackie wants to watch it again.” She pauses for a breath in her story, “so can we watch it, Mr. Ben?”

“I don’t see why not, and we can play the rest of the day by ear.” 

They accept that as Ben leaves them to breakfast, politely declining the offer of joining them for cereal in favor of nabbing a cup of coffee from the still-half-full pot. He’s sipping at it, checking a few messages on his phone, when George appears at his side, fully dressed. “Could I ask a favor of you today?” 

“Sure thing?” There’s not exactly a lot of stuff that George could ask that Ben wouldn’t do. Well, he supposes there is but, he’s pretty sure George isn’t about to ask him to sell his kidney or bury a body like five feet from his kids.

George adjusts his tie, lips pinching together in that discomforted sort of frown. “It’s more like two favors. I meant to go to shopping this past week, however I was unexpectedly out of town for a large portion of it, and in wall-to-wall meetings during the rest. Since you’re currently in possession of a car, I was hoping you could take them to the store, pick up some staples. Meat, vegetables, snacks, what have you. And, on top of that, I’ll be home late tonight. I don’t know if you’re working your second job tonight, I shouldn’t be home much later than nine which means if you can stay the unfortunate task of putting the children to bed will fall to you.”

It’s like a wall of information and requests and questions all at once and Ben actually has to take a second to sort through all of them. “No problem, on all counts? I can do a grocery run, my next shift at the diner isn’t until Friday night, and they have an 8:30 bedtime, right?”

“Correct, and of course you would be paid for the extra hours. Ah, and here, for the groceries,” George huffs as he pats down his jacket, coming up with his wallet and Ben’s about to hold up his hand to tell him George can just reimburse him later, but his boss is much faster than he. Pulling out a credit card and handing it to him. “Just keep the receipts, don’t let Patsy or Jack convince you to buy a three pound bag of candy or incredibly sugary cereals or...well, anything that you think might just be horrifically unhealthy.” He checks his watch. “And I am very late. I’ll see you guys tonight.” 

That last sentence was pretty clearly directed towards the kids, but Ben gives him a little wave anyway. There’s a customary round of goodbye kisses and hugs (none of which Ben was a part of, obviously) and George is out the door, leaving, once again, just the three of them. 

It starts to feel more routine, even with Ben’s early start and Jack’s clear exhaustion. Jack clears the table while Patsy puts the cereal boxes and milk away, Ben washes the dishes and loads the dishwasher. Patsy reads while Jack draws (this time, another picture featuring Ben is made and Ben has to, once again, stop himself from having his heart just explode out of his chest.) The only read, hard-lined difference is that Jack ends up taking a nap somewhere around eleven, which Ben doesn’t mind considering what George had said about him not getting a whole ton of sleep. He just tucks him in on the couch and lets cartoons run quietly in the background while Patsy follows him into the kitchen so he can make a list for the store. 

“What’s your favorite color?” She asks, legs swinging as she sits at the table to watch him. 

“Blue. But I’m really a fan of green too. And red.” They’re almost out of milk, so Ben writes that down. And butter. And literally any sort of fruit or vegetable. 

“I like blue. Like the sky. What’s your favorite book?”

“That’s a hard one. I’d have to say Romeo and Juliet. It’s about a boy and girl who fall in love. You’ll probably read it in school when you’re older.”

She hums, in a faint sort of disinterest. Ben moves on to the pantry, making sure to write down all the things he thinks a real functioning house (and not just the apartment of a twenty-three year old) should have while Patsy contemplates her next question. 

“Do you have a girlfriend, Mr. Ben?”

Of course. Ben scratches a line across his list when he jumps at the suddenness of it. On one hand, a simple  _ no  _ would suffice and he knows he doesn’t need to clarify to a seven year old that he’s actually gay. But still, it at least throws him off kilter. 

But she’s expecting an answer, so he gives her one. “No, I don’t have a girlfriend.” 

“Why not? I went to play at Theo’s house last week ‘cause she lives closer to my mommy’s house and she told me her babysitter has a boyfriend and he comes over  _ aaaaall  _ the time.”

“Oh.” Okay, there is no way to not make that sound forced, but Ben makes a note to mention that to George to maybe pass on to Theo’s parents later. “That sounds nice.”

“So why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

He was hoping she’d forget that. “Because I don’t,” he says with a shrug and as much as she clearly doesn’t want to accept the answer, Ben straightens out anyway and redirects her attention with a quick: “Hey, Pats is there anything we need from the store that I don’t know about? Do you think we’re good on ice-cream?”

It’s sufficient enough bribery and distraction to get her off the question train and, with her help, Ben actually ends up with a pretty decent list. He even manages to scrounge together just enough of everything he needs to make some macaroni and cheese for them for lunch, if not just to avoid a hungry shopping trip. 

Jack wakes up a little before it’s done, yawning his way downstairs and making arms at Ben to pick him up. Honestly, George makes it look  _ way  _ easier. And even if Jack is small for his age, Ben still grunts a little to heave him up and get him situated on his hip as he stirs the pot. He kinda rests him half on the counter-top, letting him koala cling all he wants and nuzzle into Ben’s shoulder. 

“You sleep well, buddy?” He asks, needlessly, letting Jack nod against him. “That’s good, we need you all rested up to go to the store today. And y’know if you’re good you and Patsy can pick out a treat.” 

Jack stilled a little at treat, and Ben twists to look down at the two big, blue, eyes peering up at him. “Really?” Jack asks, half-muffled against Ben’s shirt.

“Of course. But you guys gotta be on your best behavior, okay? We’ll go after lunch.”

“Can I ride the horse? Daddy lets me ride the horse if I’m good in the store.”

Ben has exactly no idea what Jack means by that, but he shrugs as much as he can with forty pounds of kid latched onto him. “Sure.”

Apparently, Ben learns quickly, it’s not really that easy to correll children into behaving in public. First of all, getting them into Nate’s car was almost a disaster, especially since no one bothered to tell him about the booster seats until they were just about ready to buckle in. Ben manages to find them in the garage, leaving them both in the car because the rain picks up right while he searches them out, but then  _ apparently  _ he puts them in on the wrong sides. Since Patsy wants to sit behind him, and Jack likes to kick the seat in front of him. 

The next absolute tragedy comes when the horse is, of course, fucking broken. It turns out Jack had been ranting and raving about a coin-operated horse ride outside the store, which immediately upon their arrival they found stuck with an “Out of Order” sign. 

“Gosh, kiddo, I’m sorry,” Ben said, as Jack’s eyes fogged over with tears. “We can pick you out something else in the store, okay?” Judging by the lower-lip wobble, it wasn’t okay. But Jack rubbed his face on his sleeve and nodded through his sniffles anyway. Ben gave his hair a soft pet as he clung tightly to him, arms wrapped around him and face buried in his thigh. 

It takes a solid five minutes for both the combined forces of Ben and Patsy to urge him towards the carts, with the promise of letting him ride in the basket of it, even if Ben’s pretty sure that’s not allowed. But, well, if it gets them on the road to being done then it’s worth it. They get inside, away from the thick muggy heat of the simultaneous pre and post-downpour outside, with Patsy holding carefully to the side of the cart and Ben already absolutely exhausted. They almost make it through a whole aisle without incident, but somehow, when he’s debating the difference between getting canned beans or dried beans someone sneaks a bag of mini marshmallows into the cart. And, well, Ben has actually no idea where it came from considering he only looked away from Patsy for two seconds, but he puts it at the top and warns them both, “Remember, you only get treats if you’re good, okay?” 

“Sorry, Mr. Ben,” Patsy says with a small frown, digging her toe into the ground. Jack parrots her with the same watery eyes from just a few minutes ago. It is physically impossible to stay mad at them. Ben puts a little weight behind the cart, and starts them rolling again, ticking off things on his list and employing Patsy to grab boxes of crackers or cereal off some low shelves for him. 

They get a whole three items down on his list before Jack asks, while clutching a box of animal crackers to his chest, “Why’s the horse broken, Mr. Ben?”

Ben grasps for straws for a second, both literally and figuratively as he puts a box in the cart, before shrugging, “I dunno, buddy. Lots of kids probably like to play on it.”

“But why is it broken?”

“Because, it needs a break from playing with little boys.”

“But why?”

“Because even horses get tired, Jack.”

“Why?”

“Because they work really, really hard, and don’t you get tired when you spend all day running around?”

“I guess.” There’s a pause that Ben, like a fool, thinks means that their done. “But why?”

“Jack, buddy, you’ll have to ask your dad when he gets home, okay? I bet he has all the answers.” 

“Why don’t you know?” Ben raises a brow down at Jack who, at least now is struggling to hold back his laughter at his own brilliance of very clearly annoying Ben. He doesn’t last long, and Ben can’t help but smile a little himself, not even too upset about having to pull another bag of candy out of the cart and put it back. He ticks ‘bread’ and ‘english muffins’ off his list as they make their way in rounds. Eventually, Jack gets too antsy in the cart and demands to be taken out and walk with them. It’s just as well, considering Ben’s a little worried by the time he heaved a gallon of milk into the cart it would just straight up crush him. 

But there were now tantrums, no fights over how many boxes of fruit snacks they were going to get or if a literal gallon of ice cream counted as a treat or not. There were no dragging their feet and whining as they helped Ben pick out what vegetables and fruits they liked more than others, or what kinds of things their dad liked to make. That last one was difficult when every answer was then met with “but it’s gross when he makes it” or “but he has it delivered, though.” But, it does paint a far more interesting picture of George as, apparently, useless in the kitchen.

They end up with a good assortment of things, some staples, some extras, plenty of things that at least Ben can cook and maybe some things that he can throw in the fridge pre-made and just let George shove in the oven.

Maybe. If that’s not overkill. 

Unloading the cart, however, apparently left a different story of their trip. Somehow, under a bag of carrots he finds a little box of toy cars that is notably different from the ones that Jack is clinging to as his reward for not pitching a fit over the fruit roll-ups. There’s two bags of chocolate that he knows he didn’t put in, an extra box of graham crackers and, unshockingly, a shit ton of junk food. 

He watches it all slowly slide towards the cashier, divider between things on his list and things added by children that apparently he wasn’t watching close enough. “I’m just gonna,” he gestures to the excess, wincing a little, “put all this back.”

“It’s no problem,” she insists, still scanning, “it happens a surprising amount. I’ll take it you three don’t go shopping without mom a lot?”

Huh? Ben looks down, then at the kids, then up again before it clicks. “Oh no, no no. I’m their babysitter. Right?”

Patsy bounces up on her toes, a little excited to share: “Mr. Ben watches us  _ all _ day while our daddy’s at work. We watch movies and color and he promises we can go to the park once it stops raining too! He’s the best babysitter!” It’s sweet, but Ben has to edge his way around her and Jack to pay and fuck okay, he tries really hard not to wince at the total but it’s hard. George told him to get what they needed. He steels himself, and pays and wraps the receipt around the card before tucking it back into his wallet. 

He, by the grace of God, manages to wrangle both the bags  _ and  _ the children into the car with only one, long, tearful farewell from Jack to the busted horse. 

They’re barely two minutes out, when it starts dumping rain back on them again and Ben can only pray that it stops by the time they hit George’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on the [tumblr](http://tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

The downpour is still torrential by the time Ben and the kids pull into the driveway, and it doesn’t show a single hint of stopping the entire time Ben races two kids and two arm-fulls of grocery bags from the driveway to the front stoop. Patsy and Jack, running ahead of him and squealing, managed to escape the worst of it but Ben gets the brunt. By the time he heaves the bags from his car to the inside of the garage and then back inside the house, he’s dripping. Absolutely dripping.

Patsy snickers, “Mr. Ben! You’re all wet!” As if the observation itself is hilarious. And then she asks: “Can we go play in the rain too?”

“Help me put away these groceries and I’ll think about it, okay?” He sets them down, letting her pick up the jug of milk and start happily towards the kitchen. Then he notices something. He looks to his left. Then his right. Then behind him. He does a full, confused, circle before he spots Jack’s tiny form hunched over by the wall. 

Scooping some of the bags onto his wrists, Ben makes his way over, ignoring the fact that he’s  still soaking from the shoulders up. “You okay there, buddy? Still upset about the horse? Because I promise as soon as she’s working again, she’ll be--”

“It’s loud outside.”

Right. Jack doesn’t like thunderstorms. George had said that morning, but so far there was barely a rumble of thunder. “Hey now, it’s okay. I promise. We’re gonna put these away and then we can put on Cars, yeah? And, with all that stuff you and your dad got the other day, we can make some cards for father's day. Does that sounds good to you?”

“I guess. Uh...Mr. Ben?”

“What’s up, kid?”

“You’re drippy.” 

“I know, kiddo.”

There's only one or two problems between food going in wrong places and Patsy trying to sneak juice boxes out of the packaging before everything's put away and Ben can settle thing one and thing two in front of the tv with a box of craft supplies. He barely sits down with them, having towel-tried his hair in the downstairs bathroom and gotten his laptop balanced on his knee, when his phone gives two sharp buzzes to inform him of a text. He wiggles it free without disturbing too much.

It’s George asking just a simple: “Everything going alright?”

Ben’s brow furrows. He hadn’t texted him to check-in since Ben started. Sure, it was barely a week and a half ago but really he figured there wouldn’t be much after that. He shoots back a fast, “They were awesome at the store!” Which was mostly true.

“I’m not sure how much I believe that, but as long as they’re both alright I’ll accept it.” George’s response comes quickly, and as much as Ben wants to send something else, to just keep the conversation rolling--he seriously can’t think of a single thing to say. He doesn’t know exactly why he wants to say something, to be polite? Maybe? But George was working, so the polite thing to do would be to leave him alone to do that. 

Which he does, tucking his phone back into his pocket and squinting at the instructions given out for the assignment he’s trying to complete. 

Patsy doesn’t let him get away with that for long, pausing in the middle of sticking a rainbow sticker to the front of her dad’s card. “Whatcha doin’ Mr. Ben?”

“Homework, actually.”

Her nose crinkles and she blows a stubborn piece of hair away from her face. Ben makes a mental note to learn how to braid so he can fix it when it falls down. Apparently George does it in the morning, since the last time Patsy tried she ended up with a tied and knotted mess that Ben had to comb out. 

“It’s summer though, why do you have homework?”

“Well, I wanted to make sure I was ahead with all my work, so I decided to take a class over the summer too. That way I wouldn’t have to work as much during the year.” 

“What do you learn?”

“Stuff about how transportation happened in the 1800’s. Like trains and stuff.”

She hummed in what was suddenly far more disinterest, but Jack piped up, hands covered in glue that Ben knows he’ll be washing off the coffee table later. “What about cars?”

It’s a short lecture to get him to understand that cars weren’t invented until later than when Ben is studying, but there were carts and buggies, which were kinda like cars but with horses. Jack either gets it, or he doesn’t care enough to ask a lot of questions. And luckily, they leave him with enough time to finish a quiz on his laptop and start in on another reading before he finally checks the time and, well, fuck. 

He was supposed to start dinner almost twenty minutes ago. He grunts as he heaves himself off the couch, shutting his laptop and leaning it down by the couch. “What are you guys feeling like having for dinner tonight?”

Patsy says “Tacos!” at the same time Jack squeals, “Spaghetti!’”

They grin in unison and Ben drags his hand down his face. He really, really wishes it wasn’t like this every night. “Who picked yesterday?”

“I did!” Patsy claims, sticking her hand straight up with pride, failing to realize the implication. “I picked chicken nuggets and french fries!”

“Okay, so Jack picks tonight because then it’s fair, right?”

Her hand hovers and then falls, gap-toothed grin doing just the same. He manages to coax her into being a little less morose by promising that she can help. He gets her washing mushrooms while standing on her little step-stool while Ben takes care of anything that could even be vaguely construed as dangerous. It’s rare that after dinner Ben actually has time to put the kids to some task  _ and  _ clean without the impending threat of George coming home. But, once they’re done stuffing their bellies, Jack clears the table and Patsy unloads the dishwasher (but only of things she can reach or that aren’t too heavy or pointy) so Ben can finishes the dishes (despite George’s near-constant assertions that that isn’t actually Ben’s job) and dole out a well-deserved dessert. 

Normally, this was when George would come home. The kids would fling themselves at their dad and George would pick them up and greet them with that soft sort of warmth that can only come from a long day without them. Honestly, it kinda makes Ben’s chest hurt a little. But in a good way. It sits like a picture for just a second or two before finally one of the kids turns on Ben to tell George everything that happened in minute detail from nine in the morning to that very moment. 

But, George wouldn’t be home for hours still. 

He wasn’t home by the time the kitchen was done being cleaned, he wasn’t home by the time the final words of bedtime stories were hit and Ben promised up and down, “He’ll come in and say goodnight when he gets home.” 

He wasn’t home for that strange, surreal gap, where Ben was sitting on the couch, tv playing the news on mute and laptop open on the coffee table. He’d never actually been in George’s place without the kids underfoot before, and even if they were just a floor above him, sleeping, it seemed weird. Like he really, really wasn’t supposed to be here. As absurd as that feeling is. It was too quiet, too, with really only the distant roaring of wind and the occasional crack of thunder to break the monotony of his fingers tapping on the keyboard. 

The kids had been asleep for about half an hour when Ben decided to get up and make sure the kitchen was clean and clear (it was) and that the living room was put together (it was) and that the bathroom wasn’t a mess (it wasn’t) just for the sole purpose of having something to do. 

It’s kinda tempting to just slam a drawer shut just to have something to do.

He doesn’t though. He takes his spoon from the kitchen and quietly finishes fixing himself a cup of tea. Something to keep him awake without getting him wired for the whole goddamn night. He gets it steeping, mixed in with a spoonful of sugar, and he’s out towards the living room again when he see’s the shadow at the bottom of the stairs. 

It startles him enough to splash tea on himself, but not enough to drop it. In the distance, Jack sniffles a wet little sniffle. Ben ignores his once again wet shirt and hurries towards him the best he can. “Jack, what’s wrong buddy, why aren’t you asleep?”

“Lied before.” As soon as Ben gets close enough, he can see the mess of snot and tears on his face, and he really wished he’d grabbed a towel or something from the kitchen. Maybe a wet cloth of any description. “‘M scared.”

There’s a hiccup at the end and Ben’s heart splinters in time with it. “Oh honey, c’mon, Jack. It’s okay,” he pauses as he crouches down, setting the tea on a step so he can gather him up into his arms. Jack just clings. “It’s okay, I promise. It’s just sounds, nothing but noise.”

It doesn’t really placate him at all, and Ben’s only kinda desperate. But kinda turns to really and that splintering of his heart just shatters at the first mournful little: “I want my daddy.” But it gets tinier and sadder each time he repeats it, again and again until omething a little akin to a whine crawls up Ben’s throat and he just squeezes the boy tighter, tucking his head under his chin. “I know, kiddo, I know. He’ll be home soon, I promise. Okay? And I’ll send him right to you--” That was clearly the wrong thing to say. Jack’s tiny arms tighten so hard and he shakes with the force of another frightened sob. “No, no, what’s wrong, buddy?”

“Don’t go.” 

Oh. “Oh no, oh no, Jack, I’m not going anywhere, I’ve gotcha.” He gives him a smaller squeeze. “What does your dad do to make you feel better, huh? Maybe we can do that.”

Another sniffle. “He lets me sleep in the big bed with him.” 

Great. The one thing Ben can’t do. He chews his lip and runs his fingers through the short brown hair. “How about we go lay on the couch?”

“But you said--”

“I know, honey, I know.” He cuts him off and Jack’s lip wobbles and the face he turns up to him is shiny and puffy with fresh tears. “We’re gonna go into the living room, I’m gonna put on  _ Cars  _ really quietly and you can lay down with me, okay? I don’t sleep in the big bed with your dad, but I do lay on the couch, so we can lay there together, okay? That way you’ll know I’m still there. The whole time. Does that sounds good?”

Jack nods and makes his up arms again. It’s a two-handed job, but Ben manages to both scoop him up and snag his mug so no one trips over it later. Luckily, it’s a short walk to the living room and Jack’s pretty still, hiding his face in the crook of Ben’s neck the whole way there. The tea ends up on the coffee table and Ben sets Jack down and thanks every higher being he’s ever heard of that the remote is within grasp and  _ Cars  _ is still in the DVD player. 

He lays out on his back, Jack getting comfy on his chest and pressing his cheek against his collar, and starts it. It takes five minutes of rubbing his back and Jack is out like a light again, smearing snot and tears across Ben’s shirt, but he doesn’t care. Jack looks so...so...peaceful. He doesn’t have that constantly-anxious look, he’s not hiding or ducking his head or digging his feet into the ground. He just looks so at ease, melted against Ben’s chest when he’d just been sobbing so hard Ben was kinda worried he might hurl. Ben keeps rubbing his back anyway, feeling his own exhaustion creeping over him. George can’t be more than half an hour away, probably less than fifteen, but fuck Ben is so tired. He’s tired and laying down and Jack is so  _ warm.  _ A couple minutes with his eyes closed wouldn’t kill him.

It wouldn’t even be sleeping, just resting his eyes. He shifts his cheek against the seat of the couch, his legs draped over the arm so he can fit lying down, and lets them slide closed.

When he opens them again, George is standing over him and credits are rolling on the TV behind him. Ben tries to sit up, but the weight on his chest reminds him pretty suddenly that Jack’s there sleeping still.

George raises a brow and Ben rubs at his eye with the hand not resting on the kid. “He was scared,” Ben whispers. 

“I guessed.” George crouches down next to the couch and Ben really tries to ignore how close they are, but he’s tired and George smells good and he can see the stubble starting to come back in. He watches him as he shakes Jack awake slowly and lets him slide from Ben’s chest to George’s arm. “Hey, Jack. Heard the storm did a number.”

Jack’s, “Uh-huh,” is so quiet Ben hardly hears it.

“How about I put you up in the big bed, huh? I have to talk to Mr. Ben a little before I come up, but I promise it won't be too long.” This time the only response is a tiny nod and George mouths  _ Be right back  _ as he starts for the stairs. 

Rubbing his eyes, Ben sits up and takes a sip from his now-cold tea, wincing and sticking his tongue out. Okay, it’s gotten gross now. He tries to shake the exhaustion off himself instead of making another, putting his laptop and chargers back into his messenger bag. He checks his phone once he’s done, blinking three times at the numbers to make sure they’re right. Quarter to eleven?

“Coffee?” George asks once he appears back in the doorway, totally making Ben jump this time. 

Fuck. He rubs the back of his neck and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m uh. I’m good.”

“You look like you’re going to pass back out on my couch any minute now.”

Okay, this time he grimaces, picking his cup up and starting towards George. “I’m so sorry about that by the way. I never  _ ever  _ fall asleep like that.”

“I’m two hours later than I said I’d be, Ben, It’s fine. They’re both alive, and you were taking care of Jack. I, however must sincerely apologize to you for being so late. You were already so kind staying an extra half hour for me and I am so sorry for making you stay later. I will make sure to compensate you greatly for this, I had a dinner, which due to a mistake with the assistant of one of my clients ended up being a forty minute drive, on top of going incredibly later than I had thought.”

“It’s fine.” He really, really wants to just lay back down, but he can’t. He’s gotta go home. “Really.”

“Ben, you’re practically slurring.”

Well, if he didn’t notice it can’t be that bad, right? He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and muffles a yawn in the back of his hand. “One cup of coffee.”

The mug is lifted from his hands and he swears, even if his eyes are still closed, Ben can  _ hear  _ the smirk. “Of course. Extra sugar, light milk? I see you make it in the mornings.”

One turns to two, sitting at the table as Ben outlines the whole of the day. How relaxed and quiet it was, how hectic the store was, how they were somehow how both so good and so not at the same time. 

George just shakes his head, stirring in another spoonful of sugar into his own mug, his filled with decaffeinated tea. “I should have warned you about Patsy, she’s very very sneaky. And I should’ve warned you about the penny horse. Jack loves that thing and it’s just a tragedy that it was broken.”

“So it really is a thing?”

“Once, I was there alone, I saw a three year old clinging to the broken horse and  _ wailing.  _ It was truly awful. I don’t think Jack was ever that bad with it, but I also think it’s only been broken a few times.”

“He was pretty devastated, I think it’s been a long day for him.”

“Speaking of,” George heaves a sigh and takes another sip from his mug. “I ought to get up there soon. But before I forget, if you’d like the day off tomorrow it wouldn’t be too difficult to manage.”

Ben tilts his head, pausing with his cup halfway to his lips. “You seeing another nanny on the side?”

“No, fortunately, Martha is going to be picking them up early because I need to go out of town, again, for the weekend. A client of mine is having issues but they’re stationed in California, so it most certainly not a single-day trip. She was going to fetch them around three or four, but I can take them to the office and stick them in a conference room.”

Ben doesn’t know what sparks it in him to say it, but he immediately spits out: “I can still watch them. No problem. Just what, pass them off to their mom when she gets there?”

“Essentially, yes. Martha and I ended things on...good terms, so there is no animosity here. It’s why I gave you her number in case something went wrong, she’s a wonderful woman.” 

He doesn’t ask, but he fucking wants to.

“It’s no problem, none at all.” 

“Thank you, now, if Jack wakes up alone there will be hell to pay.” 

Ben doesn’t quite know why he’s disappointed, but he is. “I should get home too.”

It’s a quiet goodbye, and a quiet, long, ride home. Nate’s playing video games on the couch, barely looking up aside to confirm it’s Ben as he drops Nate’s keys next to him. 

“Thanks for letting me borrow your car. Sorry I was late.”

“You’re fine. I was about to call and ask if you’ve been murdered though.”

“Why would I answer if I’ve been murdered?” 

Nate just shrugs his response as he finishes getting his ass handed to him in Mortal Kombat. “Well I mean, I actually sorta guessed you were shacking up with your boss.”

_ “What?”  _ Okay, so now Ben’s awake. He drops his bag with such a sound he almost winces for his laptop, and crosses his arms over his chest. “You thought I was  _ what?”  _

“Dude.” Nate pauses the next match and turns to face him over the back of the couch. “What do I hear all day? George this and George that. And oh, George is having me do this and oh, I’m doing this for the kids and this with the kids. Blah blah blah you want to fuck him.”

Absurd. Fucking ridiculous. Ben scoffs, “He has kids. He was married, Nate. He’s not gay.”

“So you’re not denying you don’t wanna fuck him?”

Ben doesn’t come up with an answer before Nate presses play, so he shuts his bedroom door a little harder than he needed to. He doesn't want to sleep with George. He really, really doesn't. 

Not at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Martha was absolutely nothing like Ben expected. Granted, he couldn’t actually pin down what he’d expected her to be like. Maybe, in his head, she was something more like George. Work-centric and stern with some deep soft-spot for her children. He thinks he expected her to be cold, calculating, like some stereotypical portrayal of an ex-wife in a story where the man is the lead. 

She swept in just when she said she would, short but graceful and incredibly beautiful. She had sharp, dark eyes and a mountain of the same deep chestnut hair that Jack had, all carefully pulled back from her eyes. She was dressed perfectly in a smart pantsuit, and Ben was almost ready to ask just who she was, but Jack flung himself at his mother with a force so intense he was worried she just might topple over. But Martha stood firm scoping down and hugging her boy before planting a big kiss to the top of Patsy’s head.

“You must be Benjamin,” she said, her smile white and sincere and very much like it knew far more than Ben did. She extended a hand. “George has told me so much about you.”

“Yes,” he coughed, before taking hers in a brisk, firm, shake. “Uh, yes, ma’am.”

“Oh please, dear, call me Martha. Now, forgive me if I’m wrong but is that George’s sweet tea I see back there? Would you be a dear and fix me a glass, I know Patsy hasn’t finished packing for the weekend so there’s no need to rush.”

Sure enough, Patsy flew up the stairs, Jack following to fetch his own backpack and Martha sat down, gesturing for Ben to join her.

She stayed almost an hour and a half, chatting idly about George, how they met, “I work for a company his firm represents. A dinner to try to coerce me to accept keeping their counsel on retainer turned into date, which turned into five years of marriage.” Or cute things about George with the kids, “He didn’t hold Patricia for three days after she was born. So scared of dropping her or crushing her. Once he did though it was nearly impossible to pry her out again.” Or anything in between, until she  _ really did have to go.  _

And Ben was left with the quiet of the cavernous house once again. He cleaned up, and went home, feeling a little sadder than he usually did. The week without them was slow as ever, answering emails and waiting tables late into the night. It was bleary and routine, not nearly as exciting as screaming children clinging to his arms for fear of the lava that’s taken over the livingroom floor.

A drink with Nathan wasn’t quite as relaxing as cartoons murmuring in the background while he colors in a picture of a whale, sitting on the ground next to Jack. Or sitting with Patsy half-curled in his lap while she reads her latest find from a quick and suitably exhausting walk to the library. There’s just something about them that makes him, well, a little happier.

He counts down through the monotony of the same rinse-repeat schedule. Wake up, shower, make lunch since he was out until eleven, answer emails and send some of his own, do some readings, go to work. Even at the diner it was painfully mundane. Show up, talk to a coworker, re-fill the truckers coffee, do a round, do another round. There’s barely enough people coming through once it hits midnight to even justify the hours he spends there, but he does it anyway, picking his way through the stoners and truckers and bored high school students who snuck out and still smell like cheap beer. 

The constant stream of: “Good evening, how are y’all doing?” and “What can I get for you?” all blur together until he’s left clocking out and passing out face-down on his bed. It happens on Saturday and Sunday and Monday and Tuesday. Then again on Friday and Saturday, until Ben’s itching to just go back to George’s and get something even remotely interesting to happen in his life. 

He plans out the week at the kitchen table, Nate giving him looks that Ben (unfortunately) knows what they mean. He figures it’s not supposed to rain the first day, so it’s time for a well-deserved dunk in the pool for the three of them. Maybe the park if they’re feeling up to it. He prints out recipes for homemade fruit-based ice cream, some stuff for popsicles, some other idle little summer crafts. 

Nate makes fun of him, but Ben really doesn’t mind. It’s a good excuse to do all the shit that they didn’t when he was a kid and if he’s being totally honest with himself, it’s pretty fun. Especially because he’s not dealing with fussy bedtimes or sugar highs for an eternity. It’s just a summer, and even if he doesn’t like how sourly that sits on his tongue, it’s a fact he’s got to admit to himself. It’s all just for the summer. Only for the summer.

He looks down at his planner and frowns, thumbing through the so-few weeks he has left to plan. He doesn’t want to think about that. 

Ben gathers up his papers, shoves them in his laptop bag, and heads to bed a little too excited for the next day.

He precedes the kids on Monday by a solid half-hour. He’s there a few minutes early, bike parked alongside the house as he almost skips his way up the steps to the door. George answers pretty fast after he knocks, this time actually dressed for work instead of still in the processes of being so. “You’re early,” George comments, one brow raised.

Ben checks his watch. 8:50. “A little, is that an issue?”

“No, I mean.” He clears his throat. “I meant to call you, Martha’s running late dropping them off. You’re early, or more accurately, they’re late. Come in, though, come in.” 

Okay, being there after the kids have gone to bed, or after they’ve been picked up is one thing, because Ben’s more or less alone then. Arriving when they’re not is wildly different. George shuts the door behind him as he’s done every morning so far, but the quiet is different. New in way he does not like. George doesn’t fill the silence past: “They shouldn’t be much longer. There’s coffee in the kitchen.”

George doesn’t point out that there’s two mugs sitting out, too. One half-filled with George’s usual morning coffee, the other totally empty. Ben only contemplates it for half a second before fixing his own and leaning against the counter. “So...must make it an easy morning for you, huh?” He says, for the absolute sole purpose of breaking the silence of the house. 

He leans close to Ben, close enough for a whiff of that cologne he uses (kinda spicy, kinda masculine, kinda amazing), to grab his mug. Ben’s traitorous mind won’t give up what Nate said just a handful of days ago, poking fun at him, saying Ben wanted to sleep with George.

Absurd, that’s what it is. Fucking absurd. He just smells good. And looks good in a just-tight-enough shirt and dark pants.

George shrugs in that nice jacket, no more suits now that his deal closed apparently, as he retreats back to the kitchen table. “It’s strange when they’re not here. I find I’m not incredibly fond of the quiet. I used to adore it, would prefer hours of companionable silence to conversation. After Martha and I had children however, silence starts to imply that something has gone horribly wrong.” 

The quiet that follows is incredible awkward. Ben drinks his coffee and tries not to look at him, or check his watch. 

Eventually, something has to give and Ben inhales to make some comment on how well Patsy reads at the same time that George makes some noise that Ben thinks could be the beginning of a sentence. 

“Sorry,” Ben says, wincing. “You go ahead.”

“Nonsense, you were going to say something.”

“Seriously, nothing important.” He feels like such a fucking loser and hides his face behind the mug. It’s almost empty. George doesn’t need to know.

He’s about to swallow the last mouthful when George clears his throat and says: “Do you perhaps work this Saturday?” 

And Ben chokes. He chokes because part of his absurd and incredibly out there mind thinks that maybe George is trying to ask him out. Except that’s ridiculous and absurd and would never happen. Ever. Ever-ever. He coughs into his elbow, trying to ignore both the bright-red burning of his ears and pitiful look George is currently giving him from just a few feet away. “Sure,” he wheezes, only half-thinking he’s not actually scheduled at the diner this Saturday. “Totally, just let me know what time.” Another wracking cough.

“It would be late, beginning around seven, perhaps until nine or ten.” 

“Another business dinner?” He’s trying his best to sound aloof.

Now it’s George’s turn to look horrifically awkward and misplaced. His throat works as he swallows and his eyes dart to the fridge, the sink, and then finally, the ceiling. Once he’s done looking thoroughly embarrassed, he looks a little tired. Exhausted, even. “I’ve a date, actually. I’ve been set up by a coworker.”

Oh. Ben doesn’t know why, but he suddenly feels very, very sick. Those dredges of caffeine in the bottom of his mug aren’t appealing, and neither is the concept of refilling it so he sets it down instead. It’s stupid, it’s silly. Ben forces a smile that feels a lot more like a grimace up onto his lips. “That’s great. I hope you have fun.”

It’s too easy to imagine George a table in a nice restaurant, sitting across from some women a little too young for him, her just as pristine and unrumpled as him. Her, coming home through the door and sweeping up Patsy and Jack like Ben always does. He wants to say it’s just because of the kids, how used to their attention he is, how used to their unbridled affection. It’s nice to have that sort of excitement whenever he shows up. Jack clinging to his legs before he leaves, Patsy practically climbing him for a hug in the morning.

He tells himself it’s just because it’s almost over that he’s feeling like this, because he knows he’s only got a limited amount of time before it’s all said and done and he’s collecting his paycheck and never seeing these kids again. 

Ouch. That fucking hurts. 

Across the kitchen, George is just as silent as ever. He looks lost in thought, staring at the kitchen island across from him like it can give him some answer he might want. Ben clears his throat and flickers his eyes to the door. “I’ll take it you’ll probably wait for them to leave, huh?”

“If I can. I’ve had Alex push back some meetings for me to make a little more room but if they’re too much later I won’t have much of a choice.” 

God, that’s sad. Ben has the incomparable urge to just walk over and press his head between George’s shoulders and just hug him or something. He doesn’t like a week away from the kids and he’s only their babysitter. George just be living a very quiet Hell. “Martha’s nice,” he says instead. “She hung around for a few hours on Friday, wanted some of your tea, I guess.”

There’s a curl to George’s lip there. “She always was a fan.” Another sip of his coffee. “Martha is a lovely woman, though. Patient and kind in ways that I will never comprehend, how she does so has always evaded me, however. She’s incredibly brilliant, as well,” he points out after a pause between sentences. Ben, for all he’s worth, still wants to fucking ask. 

George, as perceptive as always, glances back over at Ben. There’s a slight arch to his brow and a twitch of his lip and Ben knows that means he’s being read like an open book. “Go ahead,” he says, “ask. You’re far from the first person to wonder why we separated.”

“Why, then? I mean I know it’s a stupid question but you both seem to get along pretty well, y’know? Not that it’s any of my business. Sorry, I’ll shut up now.”

“It’s fine,” George assures, again. “I mean it, it’s fine. Martha and I split over very basic differences that could not be rectified. It wasn’t fair to keep her legally bound to my own...issues, as I would put it. It was difficult, but in the past year, we’ve certainly relaxed to a level of friendship. It’s simple, and I will admit, slightly confounding.” 

He sets his own mug down with a sort of finality that Ben takes to mean this conversation is now done. Shortly after he does, however, Ben’s ears prick to the distant sound of a car pulling up to the driveway. Martha, he figures, with the kids. Thing One and Thing two burst through the door like a hurricane, swinging up onto George as he just barely manages to get up in time to catch them and heave them up into his arms. Martha comes in, delayed, behind them, holding one of the backpacks in each hand. She sets them down by the door and gives Ben a gentle wave before pulling herself up on her toes to reach where Jack is currently practically crawling up George’s shoulders. She kisses her son’s forehead, mutters something that Ben can’t quite hear from the doorway, and gives George’s cheek a gentle pat. 

Part of him wants to look away, because he knows this isn’t a scene that’s made for him. He’s not supposed to be part of this domestic fantasy anymore than any other stranger is, but for some reason, he’s here and he’s looking. He’s watching Patsy hug George’s hips while Martha pets her hair and talks for just a second. He’s watching George set down Jack to pull his daughter up into his arms instead. 

He’s watching all of this, like some domestic voyeur. His nose crinkles at the thought and he tries to make himself invisible against the counter. Patsy looks up to George, then back at Ben - eyes going massive and practically sparkling as soon as she sees him. 

Ben gets half a second to brace himself before he gets the full weight of a seven-year-old to the gut. Patsy glues herself to him immediately, those bright, excited, eyes staring up at him. “Mr. Ben! Jacky and I missed you _sooooo_ much! Mr. Will couldn’t answer all of Jack's questions about dinosaurs and horse-bugs, and we couldn’t go to the park here because it’s too far away but I like the swings here better and you push me higher on them and we missed you!” 

She punctuates that by pressing her cheek against his stomach, hugging him as tight as her tiny arms will allow. She doesn’t even make room for Jack, once he finally detaches from George and scurries over to do the same as his sister, except wiggled slightly between them so he can get as good a grip on Ben as ever. 

From the doorway, it almost looks like George is smiling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben has the worst day.

He tries to put the date out of his mind as much as he can. So what if George was going on date, it’s like it was really any of Ben’s business either way. Besides, even if George was going on date (in which it’s, again, none of his business) Ben still has a job to do. And with having a job to do, it means being 100% in the moment and absolutely focused on making sure neither child gets hurt. 

Which doesn’t exactly happen on their trip to the park. The day was hot and sunny and less humid than it had been the previous week, so Ben had indulged them a little with a walk to the park and a couple sandwiches with baggies full of sliced fruit and vegetables to make a picnic. After lunch, they’d been burning off whatever excess energy they still had, running around, sliding, playing tag with each other. 

It started off as good as it’s ever been. They tried to goad Ben into joining, but he’d been too busy not-sulking about George’s date which isn’t any of his business to focus much on getting a good roll around in the grass as he’s tackled by children. After they spent a solid hour and a half in their post-lunch burst of energy, Patsy managed to convince Ben to push her on the swings with ease while Jack bounced around on one of those spring-based horses. 

It’s the sort of easy summer afternoon that reminds Ben how sweet and long the days really are. He’d spent so much time the past few years working between semesters that it’s like he forgot how nice a day at the park was. 

How nice the repetitive motion of pushing Patsy on the swings and looking out over the expanse of the playground to make sure Jack was still there and still okay. It’s a picturesque sort of afternoon that cuts through the mire of Ben’s latest mood-sink.

It lasted all of maybe twenty minutes until a high-pitched wail cut through the usual happy and content screeching of children. 

Ben vaults two different playground structures, kicking up woodchips as he skids to a halt in front of the red-faced and absolutely sobbing Jack. Except there’s already some woman with short-cropped hair and  _ mother  _ written all over kneeling down and stroking his hair and inspecting the bloody scratches on his hands and knees. 

“Jack, honey, what happened?” Ben croons, dropping down to his knees and reaching a hand out to him. The woman’s arm around Jack tightens and Ben realizes his first mistake with a heavy sinking in his stomach. Patsy followed him, but she’s a ways away, watching. 

The woman shifted forward and asked, “Are you his father?” Her eyes flicker up and down and Ben’s pretty sure they both know the answer to this one. He’s too damn young to have a kid as old as Jack is.

“No,” he corrects, I’m his babysitter.” He brushes her off and moves closer, ignoring the pointed looks aimed at his back. She pulls Jack half an inch away and Ben feels that little spark of rage in his stomach. 

She turns to Jack next though, cooing, “Sweetie, it’s okay. Do you know this man?” 

Jack hiccups around his sobs, the same way he did during the thunderstorm and Ben doesn’t care what she thinks, he needs to take care of him right now. He needs to make it better.  _ Now.  _

He almost matches Jack in crying in relief when he immediately starts nodding and wiggling out of her hold to flop right into Ben’s arms. She pinches her expression. “You can’t be too safe,” she says.

Ben gets it, well, part of him does. And he’ll sympathize later with her, get that she really was just trying to protect Jack from some guy in a park claiming to be his caretaker but that’s nowhere near the front of his mind right now. Right now it’s just Jack. He scoops him up and stands with a grunt, inspecting the scratches on his hands. “Oh,” he gasps, softly, “you got yourself an ouchie, Jack. Four of ‘em, actually.” They’ve already stopped bleeding, but Ben’ll clean them up anyway once he gets home. Slap a couple Spider-Man band-aids on them and kiss them better. 

He tries to forget the eyes on his back, just like he tries to forget the date. But it’s hard. Patsy snags the canvas bag filled with the rest of their water bottles and the remains of their picnic lunch and uses her free hand to grapple for Ben’s. Jack stops crying by the time they reach their block, but he won’t exactly let Ben put him down. He has to switch arms quite a few times, annoying Patsy who keeps trying to hold his damn hand and ask him questions about why that lady didn’t want to let Ben hold Jack. 

But they limp along all the way down the street, and sure enough there’s a fucking car in the driveway. It’s got to be George. He hasn’t called or texted all day, and if Martha needs to come by to drop off something or get the kids early (which, why would she one a Wednesday?) she at least gives him a heads up. Ben’s never actually seen George’s car, now that he thinks about it, so there’s no reason why this wouldn’t be it, but he can’t focus for too long on that, because he really wants to clean out the cuts on Jack’s hands.

He puts Jack down to open the door, much to his chagrin, before shepherding them both into the house. Ben gets the distinct impression that something isn’t quite right. There’s no reason for George to be home in the middle of day, he works across town. Ben checks his phone again once they’re all kicking off their shoes in the living room.

Nothing from George. Ben frowns at the phone and tucks it back into his pocket. “Pats, can you put the bag in the kitchen? Jack meet me in the bathroom, okay? I’ll clean you up and get you some cool band-aids for you hands and knees.” He snuffles a nod and starts down the hall.

As they walk past, the man in their living room is certainly not George. 

Ben reacts on pure instinct, snapping his arms out to keep the kids behind him as his eyes cast wildly about for anything to use as a weapon. 

The man turns. He’s small, slight, and wearing what might be a nice suit but Ben’s not fooled by that. “Who are you and what the Hell are you doing?” He snaps, over the tiny, excited gasps. Behind him, Patsy and Jack start wiggling against Ben’s arms, trying to escape his grasp, but he tightens his hold. 

The man’s lips purse to a frown. “Who am I? Who are you?”

Okay, this is exhausting. Ben feels something akin to a growl work up in his throat, but before he can respond, Patsy wiggles free and too far away from Ben to grab her back again, screeching,  _ “Uncle Alex!”  _ before launching herself at this stranger's legs. Jack goes next, managing to slip between Ben’s legs while he’s distracted, wounds ignored. 

“Patricia!” Ben calls, heart suddenly frozen in his chest, but instead of pulling some weapon or kicking at her, this guy leans down and scoops her up with some sort of superhuman ease of strength. 

“Hey, kiddo.” Alex hums, “long-time no see!” 

Alex. Alex. It sounds familiar but Ben can’t place it, not when he’s busy hurrying across the room and pulling Jack off this guy. “Who are you and what are you doing?” He repeats, voice hard. 

“He’s Uncle Alex,” Patsy insists, hiding her face in this guy's neck. 

Alex smirks, “Yeah, I’m Uncle Alex, You’re probably Ben, right? Nice to meet you, I’m Alexander Hamilton, George’s assistant.”

Oh. Ben lets go of Jack, letting him adhere himself to Alex’s legs. Ben feels himself burn with the embarrassment of overreaction. “George didn’t tell me you were coming.” It’s a flat and emotionless explanation, but it doesn’t look like Alex minds, putting down a now-sad Patsy.

“He left his wallet here and he’s in and out of meetings all day. Or more like he  _ thinks  _ he left his wallet here. It’s either in his car or in the bathroom and I checked his bathroom. But!” He trails off with an excited noise, clearly aimed towards the kids. He reaches into his pocket and takes out two cellophane-wrapped cookies, “Gives me a great excuse to bring the best cookies in the world to the best godkids in the world.” 

Shrieking with glee, they both scoop up their gifts and offer an in-unison “Thank you Uncle Alex!” Ben can only barely make it to stop them both from just tearing into the cookies. 

Crouching down to eye level, he stops him. “Jack, Jack, Jack, we have to clean your hands first, remember?” 

He responds by sticking his lower lip out and letting it wobble. Those big blue eyes fill with massive tears once again and Ben, ever the bad guy today apparently, has to tell him no. He can see Alex wince in apology out of the corner of his eye. 

“He fell off something at the park today,” He looks up at Alex as he says it, turning his eyes back down to Jack to finish, “but once we get you cleaned up you can eat your cookie. You don’t wanna get ouchie all over it, do you?"

Tearfully, Jack shakes his head. Ben heaves a sigh and kisses the top of it, “C’mon buddy. Why don’t you give Uncle Alex another hug. I bet he probably has to get back to work.”

“I’m in no rush,” Alex insists, but he gets an armful of kid anyway. He scoops Jack up with the same sort of ease he did with Patsy, giving him a big squeeze. Patsy demands another after Jack in turn. “And hey, let me clear it with your dad this week and maybe you two can come over for some fudge with Auntie Eliza, huh? I know Phil and Angie miss playing dragons with you two.” 

Ben can only guess who these people are, but that seems to lighten Jack and Patsy enough that Alex can wriggle out of their hold and spare another glance around the living room. Ben only belatedly realizes he’s probably still looking for George’s wallet. When he obviously doesn’t see it, Alex falls back and clears his throat.

“Just so you know Ben,” He says, leaning in and muttering low, enough that the kids can’t hear, “George is in one of his moods today. So when he gets home, just uh, lie back and think of England, eh?” Alex says it with the sort of conspiratorial helping tone that you’d get from wizened employee’s passing down tips to newer ones. Which, Ben figures, is exactly what’s going on now. 

He doesn’t know what  _ one of George’s moods  _ means particularly, but he’s pretty certain that there is no way in fuck it could be anything good. Alex departs quickly after, apparently giving up on finding George’s wallet for him and Ben fights Jack all the way to the bathroom to clean his hands and knees in the sink. He wails again when Ben’s forced to torture him with antiseptic on his scrapes, but quiets for healing kisses over band-aids and finally a cookie. 

Tuckered out by everything, Jack goes down for a nap and Patsy reads quietly, nodding off occasionally against the arm of the couch and Ben sneaks off to clean up the bathroom. There’s water on the floor and counter that he mops up, trying not to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. But it’s inevitable. 

Really, Ben doesn’t know what that chick’s problem is, he looks straight-up exhausted of course he looks like a parent. Heavy bruises under his eyes make him look hollowed out and his hair is eight different kinds of fucked up, he looks like he’s spent the last week wrangling two kids that are slightly out of his hands, and matched it all with a part-time night job. He hasn’t felt more inept in a long time. He’s lost count of how many times today Jack has cried and Patsy has thrown one kind of fit or another, or how many times another adult has put him through a loop or the wringer or some strange combination of both and he’s so fucking tired. 

He doesn’t want to work on Saturday. He doesn’t want to work tomorrow, he doesn’t want to wake up early and shower and do this shit again. He just doesn’t. Pressing his heels to his eyes, he considers calling in sick tomorrow, but doing that to George is too rude. It’s not like he can call in someone else to cover his shift, it would mean George would have to scramble to find someone else, to have some kind of compromise. And while it doesn’t exactly escape Ben that George probably has a contingency for something like this, it’s a dick move no matter what angle it comes from.

So Ben does the responsible thing instead. He splashes some water on his face, sucks in a handful of deep breaths, and mops up the rest of the water and puts away the first aid kit. There. He goes out and starts dinner: Roasted chicken and steamed veggies with rice. No one can say he doesn’t at least have their health in mind. So there’s that, at least. 

Ben gets a solid three hours of mild peace, but he can feel the ice sink down his spine when the front door shuts a little harder than necessary while he’s cleaning plates. There’s heavy footsteps, and a cacophony of noise coming from upstairs which means the kids heart too. George looks like shit when he appears in the doorway, but it almost fades when he sees the saran-wrapped plate waiting for him. Almost. 

He probably would’ve been in the clear, he probably could’ve gone home and had a tepid end to what’s been an otherwise pretty end-to-end shitty day. Gone home, had a drink or three with Nate and then started a clean slate tomorrow. But Jack slid into view and clambered at George’s legs before he could open his mouth. He’s talking a mile a minute and Ben sees the stormy expression that George gets as soon as he lays eyes on the bandages. 

Ben might’ve gone overboard on them for Jack’s sake, but it’s just some scratches. 

He flinches away from George’s tone when those ice-cold eyes turn up to him and he asks, “Just  _ what _ happened to him?” 

Trying to keep his cool, Ben sets the plate he’s washing down and relays the story as simply as he can: “He fell off that spring horse at the park, got a little scraped up but it’s no big deal.”

George looks puzzled in a rageful way. “No big deal? Jack, sweetie, you and Patsy run upstairs, okay?” 

Yep. Mistake. Ben would normally tense for the inevitable reaming he’s about to receive, but he’s too annoyed to right now. He can feel his face screw up but he can’t quite stop it, and the path down to him being fired lights the fuck up like a Christmas tree. 

George starts. “How exactly is this no big deal, Benjamin? Your job, in fact your only job, the thing I pay you for, is to take care of my children and you let Jack get hurt today, and then you have the audacity to tell me that it’s no big deal? What exactly were you doing when Jack got hurt?”

His nostrils flare. “I was pushing Patsy on the swings. I was there two seconds after Jack fell, George, I made sure to come home and clean him up. After, of course, having an absolute heart attack at the  _ stranger  _ in your living room. Jack got scraped up at the park, George, it happens. I’m sorry, I really am, but he’s  _ five.”  _

“Oh really, would that be your excuse if he fell off the monkey bars and broke his arm? He’s five, it happens?”

“But he  _ didn’t,”  _ Fuck he can feel this conversation going either no where or to his upcoming unemployment. “If he got actually hurt it would be different but you saw him, George, he’s fine. He was a little scared at the park, sad because I made him let me clean him up before he could eat the cookie Alex brought him, and scared when I cleaned out his scrapes. That’s it. And you know what, maybe he was also scared at the park because some lady with a shitty haircut almost didn’t let me take him home because she confused me for a  _ child abductor  _ instead of a babysitter. Or maybe he was scared because I was freaked out because no one told me your assistant was dropping by so there was some strange man in the house. Pick one, but I promise you the reason Jack was upset  _ wasn’t  _ because he fell off a fucking plastic horse at the park.”

He’s breathing hard and it’s the only thing he can hear right now. The rough scrape of breath and the harsh panting in his own ears. He just said everything he’s not supposed to say, and to his boss, practically hissing in the face of his boss of all people. 

Ben swallows the tremble in his nerves once he realizes exactly what he just did. George doesn’t say a goddamn thing for the longest time. For once, even with the house totally full, it’s absolutely silent. 

Someone has to break it. 

“Is that all, sir?” Ben asks.

George nods and Ben sees the muscle in his jaw flex and jump. He grabs his bag from the living room, and he leaves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only 2 more chapters left!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben doesn't know if he quit or he's been fired but... he certainly did something.

Ben spends the better part of the next five hours debating on whether or not he’s just been fired. George didn’t say he was or tell him he wasn’t allowed to come back tomorrow, or imply anything of the like. In fact, George didn’t say anything. He finished his bit, let Ben lay into him, and let Ben leave.

He didn’t quit. At least, Ben’s fairly certain he didn’t quit.

There’s a breaking point, somewhere around midnight, where Ben’s watching Nate play video games on the couch and he finally caves and relates the whole goddamn story.

“Sounds like you’re fired,” he offers, pausing his game once Ben’s finished. “But like, also if he was just in a shitty mood, maybe you’re not. You should probably call him or show up tomorrow anyway. Last thing you want is to leave him without a sitter if you weren’t canned for giving him the dressing-down it sounds like he fucking deserves.”

Ben grunts and Nate starts the game up again.

He can feel it coming, because Ben’s known him for way too goddamn long and Nate doesn’t disappoint, finishing up with a shrug of his shoulder and an off-handed, “Besides, you can always just blow him to get your job back or something.” There it is.

He hisses, low and unkind, “I’m not sleeping with my boss, and again, I think I just got fired Nate so can you maybe keep it to yourself? At least for the fucking night?”

Nate’s lips twitch down into a tight frown and he sets the controller down again, this time turning to properly face Ben,  “Dude, I’m sorry. Just show up tomorrow or call him. And, for the record, Ben, you talk about him _way_ too much.”

Ben feels the scoff bubble, he doesn’t talk about George ever. He talks about Jack, sure but that’s because Jack is adorable and talented. And he talks about Patsy because she’s endlessly hilarious and Ben spends literally half of his time during this week with them, so they’ve quickly become most of his stories. But George? George he sees for maybe half an hour before he leaves for work, maybe another twenty minutes when he gets back. Less than an hour a day, five days a week, every other week. It’s not exactly a lot of time.

But Nate is staring at him, one brow quirked and his rare hard frown twisted in place. Ben turns his nose up immediately, “I don’t talk about him.”

“Uh-huh. He’s got a date this Saturday right, and you know he closed that deal with whatever company he was trying to get his firm to represent, you know he did his undergrad at William and Mary but he went to NYU for law. You know he likes old western movies, he’s really good at building ships in bottles--which is ridiculously stupid hobby--and he used to collect old train models but Jack nabbed them when he was a toddler as toys.”

There’s hardly a pause for a breath and Ben almost stops him but the abject mortification is too much in the moment. “On top of that, by the way, you know he sleeps in those Hard Rock Cafe t-shirts from places that he’s never actually been to because he thinks they’re comfortable. _And_ you know how he likes his eggs. Oh and one last thing, you’re practically raising his goddamn kids. But sure, Ben, sure. I’ve never met the asshole and I know this, can’t be that you talk about him all fucking day.”

There’s no response that Ben can come up with. Not something to refute it, not something to shout or fight with. He’s without a weapon or a paddle and there’s no saving the burning in his cheeks or the bile in his throat. He doesn’t slam the door when he leaves this time, though.

Nate’s gone by the time Ben wakes up the next morning, not even a whispering sign of him. Even the coffee pot is curiously empty. Ben resolves, in the back of his mind, to order him Thai food when he gets home. That always tends to soothe over aching wounds.

He never unpacked his bag from the night before, so there isn’t much to do besides clean out his coffee mug and start the pot chugging away. There’s not much danger in going over, right? Totally. George didn’t call him or text him and granted neither did Ben but Ben never said he quit. He never said those words, never said he wouldn’t be back.

And George never said he was fired.

Ben leaves the same time he does every morning, biking through the mid-summer morning with nothing but anxiety and coffee twisting up in his gut. There’s nothing out of place from the outside, same shut garage door, same quiet neighborhood.

The only difference is George is not there when Ben arrives. Instead, answering the door to his quick and tentative knock, is Martha. She’s dressed likely for work and smiles that calm, content smile up at him. “George said you might be by.”

Great. So he has been fired. His shoulder slump without his permission as she opens the door fully for him, letting him inside. “It’s fine if you want me to go,” he confesses from the doorway. “I’m not sure how much George told you but...I wasn’t exactly clear on my status here last night. I just didn’t want to leave him without a sitter but, if he’s got you...”

He trails off with a gesture and Marth’s head tilts. “Dear, he said he thought you quit last night but he wasn’t entirely certain. Judging by his tone I assume he was being a hard-headed jackass as per his nature. If you’re staying please say so, I do have a meeting in a few hours that I would really prefer to make.”

“I thought he fired me,” Ben says, after a second.

Martha makes a noise, some half-laugh half-scoff in the back of her throat. “Absurd, George adores you. Now come in before Patricia gets curious and bolts at you anyway.” Adores him? Adores him.

Now that’s absurd. “He laid into me pretty bad last night. But...I also snapped at him too,” Ben admits, sheepishly, once he’s inside. They have a small, short, walk with privacy to the kitchen and he intends to make the most of it. “It was a hard day and I feel bad--”

“Oh don’t do that,” Martha cuts in. “George is overprotective to a fault. He told me plenty of what occurred, enough that _I,”_ she places careful emphasis, that turn and pressure reminding Ben that he’s talking to the kids mother, “am still absolutely convinced that you are the best possible person to be watching my children.” She ends with a sort of finality, leading Ben straight into the lion's den, where immediately upon catching sight of him, Patsy and Jack launch into his stomach.

It’s inevitable, he figures, that they were listening. He and George got loud. Probably drew a few too many conclusions. He scoops them both into hugs, planting kisses on the top of each of their heads. “Jeez guys,” he laughs, the noise sounding as forced as it feels, “I was only gone for a night!”

Doesn't stop Jack from burying his nose in Ben's stomach. Luckily, he doesn't mention last night, just clings desperately, muttering, “Missed you.” Ben pats his hair gently before detangling himself. Jack doesn't quite leave him thought, clinging to the seam of his jeans, but that’s fine. Patsy lingers, doing the same before finally peeling herself away from him to stare down at the ground, a little discomfortingly quiet.

Ben clears his throat. “So, uh, Martha? Any particular reason George isn’t here?” Besides the obvious, that he’s definitely avoiding Ben.

She peers at him evenly over the rim of her coffee mug, neither one of the ones that either George nor Ben regular use, he notes. “He had an early meeting across town. According to him, there’s another tomorrow, so you’ll see me again then. Luckily his house is on the way to my office.” She sips, shrugging, “More or less.”

It isn’t, and Ben knows it isn’t.

George told him.

He still gives her a thin-lipped smile and lets her scroll her email in peace before she leaves. The day is mercifully short, lacking in any real drama from the past day. Patsy and Jack are, of course, notably clingy, refusing to let Ben so much as out of their sight. It’s...sad, actually. He can’t help but draw up thoughts of the end of summer, of all that stress already under their tiny belts.

Maybe it’s the pushover in him, but he lets Jack nap in his lap, head curled against his chest and lets Patsy curl into his side, burrowed into his ribcage with all her sharp edges. Something low and rotting in his chest aches when he thinks about August again.

So he tries really, really, hard not to.

George doesn’t say much when he gets home, but to his credit, neither does Ben. He gets a tight-lipped nod, which is immediately and silently returned.

“See ya tomorrow, okay?” He says, just for virtue of reassurance, slinging his bag immediately over his shoulder. “I’ll teach you how to make those little swans, okay?”

There’s grins and hugs and George stares resolutely at the floor, not even glancing up as Ben leaves.

As she promised, Martha’s there again on Friday, same coffee mug, same flawlessly done hair, some wicked close-lipped smile. “I’m gonna have to leave a little earlier this time,” she says as she carefully shuts the door behind Ben. “I’ve got a flight to Newark to catch and I always prefer to be there early.”

“Business trip?”

“A little. This evening is business, as is Saturday, but my Sunday is nothing but relaxation.”

Ben quirks a brow at her, setting his bag down by the couch as he follows the hall to the kitchen. “In Jersey?”

Judging by her very-tight-lipped hum, she agrees. She effortlessly changes the subject as Ben fixes himself a cup of coffee. “Jack’s still asleep, from what George said this morning he was very upset last night. Nightmare after nightmare, the poor thing.” Her eyes tilt to the ceiling, right towards Jack’s bedroom.

“He seems prone to those,” Ben comments, for lack of anything better to say. Patsy is somewhere, likely getting into trouble, but Ben doesn’t have eyes on her at the moment. It’s almost anxiety-inducing but he’s not technically on the clock until Martha leaves and, well, she doesn’t seem worried yet.

She confirms, “He is. I imagine he’s inherited all of his father's anxiety. George has always been the worrier.” If he thinks about it, Ben can really, really, see it. She pauses, for a moment, before continuing on, another smooth transition as she uses her spare hand to do something on her phone. “George tells me you’re working this weekend?”

He shrugs as he sits, thumb flicking over a flaw in the glaze of the mug. “Yeah, Saturday around seven to ten.”

She huffs some half-laugh. “And what did George promise to convince you to do that?”

Another shrug, another tilt of his head back. He regrets it as soon as he says it, but it churns up from his gut like word vomit, “He’s got a date with some chick from work.”

Martha’s brows shoot up to her hairline, shattering that cool and collected expression right down the center. Ben’s stomach jumps from his throat to the floor. “A date with a woman?”

“Shit, I mean, I mean, _shoot,_ I didn’t mean to say that. To you, I mean, that’s so fuck- _fuck-_ that’s so rude of me. Jesus Chri-I--”

Mercifully, as that bemused curl returns to her lips, Martha both throws him a life jacket and reels him back to dry land, “The kids are upstairs, don’t worry. George would tell you to watch your language, however. And I’m not mad, Benjamin, just confused.”

His cheeks are on _fire._ He’s the actual functioning definition of mortified. He’s going to collapse through the floor and die here, that’s just it. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t because of course he’s not lucky enough for that to happen to him. No, instead, Martha tilts her head again, perfectly to the side. “Honey,” she says, as gently as can be, “you do know George is gay, right?”

Short answer to that is, of course, the truth. Which is no, no Ben did not know that George is gay.

But...well, it makes more sense now. A lot of things make more sense now. _A lot._ And his brain very unhelpfully reminds him of all the things that means. “So,” he chokes out after a moment, “not a date with some woman.”

Martha shakes her head, looking once again perfectly bemused. “No dear. Truth be told, I should have known sooner but, there were circumstances that made it difficult for me to realize.” She glances down the table at the children, both wrapped up in their own lives as they both stumble down tired. Whatever little reverie she’s caught in, it snaps and vanishes after a few moments. “But that is in the past now. We’ve been able to heal and to accept it for what it is over these past two years. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to say goodbye to my children and head to work.”

And she does, leaving Ben there in his shell-shocked-silence still. George is gay, which means George’s date isn’t with some pretty, tiny leggy blonde intern like Ben's savage mind has been trying to convince himself. It’ll be with some young man, some guy. Some guy who _isn’t him._

Okay, that hurts more than Ben thinks it should. It cuts deep to his bone and twists him up in ways that imagining George with some anonymous woman didn’t. Some man hanging off George’s elbow, pressing against his side, tangling their fingers together. Jealousy washes over him in a wave, slamming into him and almost knocking him breathless. Which isn’t _fair._

It just... isn’t.

Ben tries his best to keep that roiling bile from interfering with his work but it just, it’s hard. He can’t stop thinking about it every single moment, he can’t stop thinking about the revelation, that wave of understanding that overcame him. And whenever it crops up, whenever it forces itself to the front of his mind, he can’t stop seeing that softness in George’s eyes when he woke Ben up on the couch.

He can’t stop thinking about the burning of his hand when he touched his shoulder in the kitchen. He can’t stop thinking about whenever George crowded into his space to get his coffee from beside the pot. He can’t stop thinking about those eyes on him. Can’t stop thinking about him.

Patsy and Jack cling into him still, needy as ever, and Ben tries his best to not let this interfere but it simmers there in the back of his mind, a constant knowledge that hovers and lingers and counts down the minutes until George comes through the door.

As if there’s anything that Ben can do once he does that. He can’t throw himself at him, he can’t grab him and kiss him, even if that’s where his mind takes him while Jack prattles on about his latest favorite rock he’s found in the yard.

Ben lets them swim, keeping tabs as they splash and screech and giggle. He lets his feet kick in the pool, tries to stay focused.

“Mr. Ben?” Patsy finally asks, after Ben’s done wrapping her in a towel and ushering them both inside for a late lunch. “Why are you and daddy fighting?”

Her voice is so unnaturally quiet and soft and Ben’s heart splinters with every word. He brushes back her wet hair and brings her in close for a damp hug, not even caring if she’s going to drip onto his shirt or his jeans. “Honey don’t worry, your daddy and I aren’t fighting,” he murmurs, even if it’s really a bit of lie. Well, they’re not actively fighting. At least, Ben doesn’t think so. “We just had a bad night, I promise it’s all okay. Is this what you’ve been so worried about recently?”

She nods, sniffling, and Ben catches sight of those little red-rimmed eyes. He hugs her close again, too many feelings overflowing at once to recognize.

“I don’t want you to go,” she whimpers.

Ben is fast to hush her. “I’m not going anywhere.” It’s a promise he can’t keep at all. He’ll be gone in a month, he knows that and it... it hurts, actually.

He lets her stick close to him, lets her be needy.

She seems to accept his vow by the time dinner rolls around, going off to play with her brother while Ben cooks. He figures he can prep a few frozen meals for the weekend tomorrow, according to the kids (and George) it’s been helpful enough when he freezes a few casseroles and lasagnas, leaving instructions pinned to the fridge.

With time alone, the distant sounds of children playing almost faded by them being a room away, Ben has, unfortunately, time to think.

And, of course, he thinks about George. He thinks about him in ways he certainly should not. Especially, _especially,_ with children a just on the other side of the wall. But he stares at the sauteing beef, entranced by his own mind and the mental image of skin and skin and lips and lips.

He tries to banish it by the time it’s done, it only half-works by the time the kids sit down to eat, Ben poking idly at his own plate, hunger vanished by just the anxiety of knowing that George is going to be coming home soon.

His eyes flick to the microwave clock. Only around half an hour. Ben wraps up a plate for him, boxing the leftovers separately, and tries not to think about how domestic it feels very very suddenly as he’s washing the dishes. He’s still scrubbing the pan when he hears the door open. When he hears the ecstatic screeches of the children, when he hears George’s low and rough voice greeting them in the door. It gets close and close and Ben’s heart beats harder and harder.

He hears the footsteps stop in the doorway of the kitchen. “Benjamin,” George greets and Ben squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment before he turns around.

His voice rattles and it’s hard to breathe. “Hey, George. How was your day?”

“Good, well, as good as work can be. Yours?”

“Great, it was great. Let me just finish up--” George doesn’t let him reach the end of the sentence, he’d taken the time Ben was talking to cross the threshold and well into the room, and managed to cut Ben off with just a heavy, burning, hand on his shoulder.

“Please,” He says, lifting the soapy dish out of his hand, “I’ll take care of it.”

Ben’s chest flutters before George finishes, “I feel bad enough,” he pauses, “as I’m sure you know,” another one, “forcing you here on your Saturday night.”

And the reality of George’s date slams into him once more and for a second, Ben thinks he might just puke.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> generally you shouldn't out your friends, but hey, y'know. fiction.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi

Saturday comes in slowly. Ben wakes up just as early as he does on the weekdays, pads around the kitchen, then the living room, bored. He picks up, waits for Nate to wake up. They play video games, grab lunch, grab groceries. It’s more or less…boring. But not in the way that grates on him and makes him go half-mad with need to do something else. It’s more relaxing than anything. Soothing way that twist of jealousy every time Ben thinks about the man George is meeting for dinner.

He’s constructed something in his mind, over the last few days. He’s probably tall. Tall enough that he wouldn’t need to crane his neck to kiss George. He’s young and handsome, shoulders broad and strong, stomach flat and smooth. His hair is light and neat-clipped, when he smiles he’s got dimples. He’s Ben, in his own mind, only better. 

Smarter, funnier, doesn’t let his kids fall off playgrounds. 

Ben drags his feet more than he would normally, huffing into the fridge and grumping at his coffee. Nate gives him a bit of a bearth, lets him sulk, for which Ben is pretty grateful for. 

The last thing he wants is an  _ I told you so  _ and one of Nate’s stupid smirks. It’s stupid, because his fantasies were never as rampant and raw as when Ben figured it would be some faceless young woman sitting across from him. The content boredom burns itself out quickly, though, once the clock starts to tick down to when Ben needs to start leaving. 

And then it starts to gnaw. It chews at him as he borrows Nate’s car again, not wanting to bike all the way back so late at night. It refuses to settle the whole drive, stills stirring angrily as he parks and carefully steps around the chalk-drawings on the driveway. This time, there’s four stick figures, and Ben distinctly recalls the asphalt cutting into his knees and hands uncomfortably as Patsy demands he helps make the castle while Jack starts drawing the dragon to attack it. 

He doesn’t dare smudge it as he makes his way up to the front door. 

It’s a few seconds after he knocks that George answers, tie loose around his throat and top button of his shirt undone and Ben can’t look away. Just that sliver of skin for half a second, something he’d seen a hundred times before whenever George dressed more casually. 

But something about it like that, coldly mirroring that first day in ways that Ben is almost uncomfortable with how much he enjoys it. 

It couldn’t have been more than a breath, before George steps aside and nods his head in greeting. “I can’t thank you enough, Benjamin.”

“For?” He responds, bracing for the twin barrels of children to tumble down the hall and right into his gut. 

“Working on a Saturday.”

“It’s what you pay me for, George,” he points out. That doesn’t get much of a response, but Ben was sure it wouldn’t anyway. He misses how it used to be, really. He misses how it was, stealing a few moments drinking coffee with George in the morning, briefing about the kids, about George’s work, about Ben’s weekend gig at the diner. 

There’s silence for a bit, only offset by the chatterbox of the television in the living room. Cars, if Ben’s not mistaken. 

A few steps ahead of him, George huffs a short little laugh. “I almost offered you a cup of coffee.”

Ben can’t help but smirk. “I dunno, if I need to keep up with these two all night I might need it.”

George scoffs and that’s really the end of the conversation. He checks his watch and retreats back upstairs, leaving Ben to wander into the room for his expected full-body tackle. He gets it, same as ever, before getting his full-day run-down of the last thirty-six hours he dared not spend with the kids. 

There’s only a few minutes, in which Ben barely has time to sit down on the couch before he’s piled on, before George appears in the doorway again. “They finished dinner a few minutes before you came, so everything should be fine. You know when bedtime is,  _ they  _ know when bedtime is. Make sure they brush their teeth,” Patsy makes a face at this, one which Ben is certain means he’ll be wrestling her into brushing later, “and I have already received permission from Jack that you may, in a rare change of routine, read Jack the next chapter of  _ Fantastic Mr. Fox  _ in my absence.” 

Ben ruffles the hair of the kid currently leaning against his arm, half-fixated on the TV still. “I’m honored, kiddo,” Ben tells him, brushing that wild dark hair back enough to look down at him. 

Jack shrugs, clearly embarrassed, and gets up once he realizes his dad is leaving. Ben tries not to pay attention to the quiet assurances to both Jack and Patsy that he’ll be in to kiss them goodnight as soon as he gets home. 

The house, once George leaves and the sound of his car is nothing more than a distant echo, is much quieter than it ever has been. 

Or maybe not as quiet as it is tense. Jack isn’t breaking from his focus to show Ben whatever he was doing that day, Patsy isn’t talking loud and constantly about the book chapter she’d finished that day. They’re both quiet, picking at their nails and not-quite watching the movie. 

“So you guys had dinner already?” Ben asks, because he has to say something.

“Yeah.” Patsy says, fingers tugging at the hem of her shirt. “Daddy made the lasagna we helped you make for the freezer.”

Well. Good to know those had been coming in handy. “What about dessert?” 

Patsy shrugged again, and Ben is pretty certain he knows what’s wrong. But, well, it’s not his place to break into  _ that  _ conversation with the kids he’s only still babysitting by the forgiving grace of George. Or by chance. Or something.

“Why don’t we get you both some cookies, okay?”

It’s not enough to totally perk them back up, but it’s enough to get a little energy back in them. Jack sits at the table, dunking his oreos into milk so long they practically dissintegrate and he’s left with more slop than cookie, while his sister scoffs and bickets one-sidedly that the superior way to eat them is to twist them apart first. 

Ben, for lack of anything better to do, picks up the kitchen a bit before sitting down and snagging one of the cookies from the box. 

“Mr. Ben?” Jack asks, quietly, after a few more minutes of tolerating his sisters debate. “Daddy said he was gonna go see a new friend but Patsy said he wasn’t sayin’ the truth.”

No no. Ben stares into the glass of milk, hoping beyond hope it would turn into a magic-eight ball, and some long-forgotten chunk of oreo would float to the top, inscribed with what he should say. But, of course, nothing comes of that and he’s left staring. Just staring.

“Your dad,” he starts, when he spends enough time ‘uhhh’ing and ‘ahhh’ing that it’s getting uncomfortable, “he went to dinner with a friend, that’s true. I don’t know his friend, but I’m sure he’s very nice and your dad wasn’t lying when he said that’s where he was going.”

Jack grumbles, the crumbs of his last oreo stuck to his face, as he frowns. The subject drops, but both kids look properly morose, they help put their plastic cups in the sink, help put everything away, before returning to catch the thrilling conclusion to a movie they've both seen upwards of a hundred goddamn times. 

Once the credits roll, Ben ushers them upstairs, gets them into PJ’s and manages to avoid a total nuclear meltdown getting Patsy to brush her teeth. She’s done and in bed first, tucked in when her twisting fingers give Ben the impression she has a question.

Which she asks, after he leans in to turn off her lamp. “Mr. Ben?” She asks, voice uncharacteristically soft. 

“Yeah, kid?”

“Do you promise that daddy’ll come in and say goodnight?”

Heart breaking, Ben sticks out his pinky. She wraps hers around it. “I promise.” It comforts her enough that she relaxes back against her dolphin-themed pillows. Jack asks him the same question.

Ben shuts the door behind him on his way out, a chapter finished and both kids fast asleep. Obviously, Ben figures, this is the first date George has gone on during his time with the kids. And he wonders if this is the first time since the divorce that George has ever left them on a weekend. Even if it’s only for a few hours. 

That discomfort within them makes Ben uncomfortable, especially as he checks his calendar on his phone. He only has three more weeks with them.

Three more weeks with them, and then that’s it. They go back to school and so does he, they get to hang out together in programs waiting for George to pick them up, go back to whatever their life was before and it doesn’t matter. He’ll just be a blip to them.

It’s comforting, in the way that it’s kind of not, and Ben looks over at the third tightly-shut door and thinks too hard about George. 

And how much he likes him. Not even as a boss or as his employer, but just likes him. That warm blossoming feeling watching George scoop up Patsy in one arm and not break stride as Jack wraps around his leg. The no-nonsense way he talks to them like they’re tiny adults instead of children.

The way he’s just so encompassingly protective and warm. The way he remembers how Ben takes his coffee or that he can actually keep conversation going on topics that Ben likes to talk about. 

He doesn’t want to leave the kids, he doesn’t want to leave George. 

And his chest hurts. 

The stairs creak under his footsteps as he slowly meanders his way back downstairs, as he finds his place on the couch as per usual and gets a little bit of homework done. 

The clock ticks slowly past and Ben feels that bubble of stupid jealousy build and build up in his stomach until his ears prick the sound of a car in the distance. His chest pounds as it doesn’t whip past the house and instead idles in the driveway for too many heartbeats to be nothing more than George getting his things together. 

It cuts and Ben closes his eyes, bracing for nothing in particular except George coming through the door, tie loose around his neck. Ben expects some love-sick expression. Some shadow of happiness that comes from a promising date. 

Instead, when George steps past the doorway, he looks exhausted. Shadowed, running his hand down his face. Ben’s not sure what to say, or if he should say anything but as George shuffles past him, he gets up. 

And he follows him. 

“Not...great, I’ll take it?” 

Yeah he doesn’t know what possessed him to actually say that, but he does it anyway, hovering around the doorway. George just kinda scoffs, not even looking back at Ben as he goes straight to the cabinets. He plucks a bottle of wine from it, setting it down on the kitchen island and going back for a glass.

He sets one down beside the bottle, then holds up a second questioningly. 

“Sure.” 

George sets it down too, then sets about uncorking the bottle. “How were they? They’ve been notably withdrawn all day.”

“Morose, mostly.”

One of George’s low, understanding, hums. “They’re upset that I went on a date, whether or not they understand the implications. They may not get it, but they do know that I left them here on one of the few days we usually spend together to see someone else.” He pours for both glasses. “They did the same thing when Martha began seeing Daniel.”

George takes one and leans back against the counter, leaving Ben to come forward to claim the second glass. It’s good, much better than the five-dollar swill Ben’s used to, of course. He sips at it, trying not to pry but kind of wanting George to eventually meander over to the good part.

“So,” he prods, pseudo-gently, “will I be working more weekends?”

There’s a moment of quiet after George heaves a sigh. “I would not count on it. I did not enter into the evening with high hopes, however, so I can’t say I’m unsurprised.” 

“That sucks,” he says, plainly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was the son of a former client and a friend of Alexander’s. Interesting man, but I think  we were both aware this night wouldn’t be much. He’s returning to his home country in a few weeks and the idea of getting involved with someone who will be leaving soon is, well, not ideal.”

Ben tries to chase the sudden feeling of sickness with another sip of wine. And then another. He’s taking his slowly, still, as George refills his glass. “Hey, George,” he starts, heart fluttering in his chest as he changes the subject. “You know uh, I’m done in like a month. It’s not the best time to bring it up, but if you never need someone to watch them, you can totally give me a call. Even if you just need a couple hours to go out and grab a beer or something.”

George gives him a funny look. Not the kind of concerned-parent look that Ben’s sure that would get from some, but the kind of confused, realization that comes from finally figuring out a long and annoying puzzle. 

“I was hoping you would say something like that,” George admitted, once Ben had given up and just slammed a third of his glass to kill the nerves. He gestures with the bottle and Ben moves closer to get topped off. “They’ve gotten pretty attached to you, Benjamin.” 

“I’ve gotten pretty attached to them too.” He’s closer than he needs to be for George to fill his glass, but neither of them move away from one another. Even after George sets the bottle back down, for a moment, it feels like he shifts a half-inch closer, even. Just a hair, just a touch. 

Just barely enough to feel. “And,” George says, lower than ever, “I must admit I’ve gotten used to your help around here. I relied on take-out for more meals than I would like to admit. And it has been nice to have someone over the age of ten to speak to in the mornings. I used to get to the office and spend the first few minutes trying to remember how to speak to adults.” 

Ben huffs a half-laugh at the idea of George talking any other way than he always does. But it fades when he realizes just how close George still is. 

The glass clinks slightly as he sets it on the counter, and George is so close, close enough that Ben can smell that cologne he wears to work. Close enough that Ben can see the sliver of his neck from the open button at the top of his shirt. Close enough that Ben can feel the warmth of him. 

And they stay there, for just a few seconds. Almost awkward and bumbling as the laughter quickly fades to nothing. Ben runs his tongue over his lips, hyper-aware of the way George’s eyes drop to follow it.

There’s something that flashes, dark, in George’s eyes. The kind of heavy want that you’re not supposed to want. The kind of heavy need that you’re not supposed to need.

The kind that follows a realization you wish you never made. 

 

He doesn’t know who kissed who first, or who’s fingers grappled for who, or who’s tongue slid against the others lips first. George tasted like the wine they’d been drinking, his hand pressed against the small of Ben’s back to keep him closer. 

They’re like that for a flash, tongues and lips and teeth catching each other, and then he has Ben against the counter. Back pressed to the hard edge, hands no longer holding him place but instead roaming up the lines of his side. 

Not that Ben was exactly immobile, of course. He’d been looking at that strong line of his shoulders for weeks and now was his chance and he was going to fucking seize it. He grasps at his arms, running his hands up and down the powerful plane of his back. 

And God, fuck, George is strong. He always looked it, under his fine suits and dress shirts but all Ben can feel under it is solid skin and solid muscle and solid and solid and he pushes his hips forward to tell George what he really wants, grinding them together as George tears his lips from Bens and drags them to his pulse-point instead. 

“Upstairs?”

One of them said it. Ben doesn’t remember who. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care who was the first to push up the fabric of the others shirt, who was the first one to slide his hand along bare skin. All he cares about is when George pushes him down onto the bed, falling down over him almost immediately.

All he cares about is George’s lips on his throat, his collar, his jaw, his own. Ben arches to tilt his head back more, exposing his neck and begging,  _ begging,  _ for George to keep going, to not stop. 

And he doesn’t.

It’s almost two in the morning by the time it sinks in that Ben just did that. The sheets are tangled around his hips, and if he blinks blearily at the floor, he thinks he can make out the outline of his jeans. His body is warm, he’s sore from his waist to his knees, and there’s a thick arm draped over his torso in a way that just screams  _ stay.  _

And Ben wants to, fuck, he wants to. He wants to roll over, wrap his own arms around George and kiss his sleep-warm collar and fall back asleep. And he’s going to. His eyes drift closed, but he’s going to.

He’s gonna roll over, wrap around George and go to sleep.

Except he needs to piss. 

Like now. 

Prying his eyes back open with a low, soft groan of annoyance, Ben unfolds himself from the warmth of the bed. The first step reminds him why he never gets out of bed so soon after taking it, leaving Ben grunting with the first uncomfortable jolt. He shakes it off and braces for it as he pads his way to the en-suite bathroom. And, by the time he’s done, he realizes his phone is in the kitchen still. 

He looks back to the bed, where George has apparently already replaced him with a pillow. It’s endearing, sweet, really, and Ben doesn’t want to do anything except crawl back into bed with him. He wants to wake up next to George, kiss him and smooth back his sleep-mussed hair. He wants to wrap their legs together and bite down his chest and stomach and nuzzle him until George is perfectly alert.

He wants lazy early morning sex before work and to oogle him as he slides out of the pool. He wants to fall asleep with his nice big hands rubbing down the length of his spine. 

He takes a half-step towards that bed, towards that life, before he remembers he never told Nate he wasn’t bringing his car back tonight.

It’s two in the morning on a Saturday, so he’s willing to believe that Nate’s still awake. Getting re-dressed in only the most lazy of ways, he slips out the door, leaving it cracked faintly behind him. 

Ben’s anticipating darting down the stairs then back up, no more than a few minutes without the warm embrace. He’s not anticipating, however, what is waiting for him once he actually steps outside.

Clutching a stuffed pony (a perfect mirror of the penny horse that Ben is frankly fucking amazed he found), and staring up at him with big, confused, and wide eyes, is Jack.

“Mr. Ben?” He whispers, and Ben’s heart touches the floor. “Did you have a bad dream too?”

“Did I what?” Probably isn’t the best answer he could give, but Jack doesn’t seem any wiser about Ben’s confusion. 

“You were in daddy’s room, daddy only lets me sleep in the big bed with him when I have a bad dream.” He explains, and Ben doesn’t have a good answer.

So instead, he turns it around. “Did you have a bad dream?” Jack nods. “And you came to tell your dad?” Another nod. Ben looks to the ajar door and quickly shuts it. Nothing in there, from the bottle of lube lost in the sheets, to the box of condoms that spilled on the floor during the mad dash to just get George inside him, to George, still buck-ass nude, is anything that Ben wants this child to stumble in on. “Your dad is sleeping right now, kiddo, but why don’t I take you back to bed? I promise to stay until you fall asleep.”

Jack mulls that over while Ben’s heart runs a goddamn marathon in his chest. Finally, he clutches the stuffed horse tighter and asks: “Will you tell the story ‘bout the spies and rub my back?”

It’s a bad idea to tell that story so close to bedtime, when Ben is absolutely certain that it will lead to more problems later, but at the current moment, all he wants is to do is get Jack as far away from the scene of his and George’s crime as humanly possible. 

He scoops Jack up once he concedes, ignoring the incredible pain in his ass that comes with it, and carryings him back to bed. The story goes off without a hitch, Jack on his belly while Ben rubs circles on his back, waiting for him to zonk out.

And it hits him, in the most ridiculous way, in that moment. There would be no lazy mornings with George. There would be no coffee in bed trading cream-and-sugar kisses. There would be no soft touching and quiet whispers. There would be no wine on the couch with rented Blu-Rays. No making out in the pool or playing grab-ass in the kitchen or screwing on every single surface they could find, as soon as the moment struck them.

George is a father. Ben wouldn’t ever expect him to prioritize anything over that, he wouldn’t ever expect him to change his ways. 

It wouldn’t be right to, it wouldn’t be  _ fair  _ to. 

And as much as Ben loves these kids, as much as his heart breaks and swells watching Jack’s breathing even out, watching him fall asleep with his dark hair falling in his face. As much as he loves it, he can’t do it.

He can’t do it.

He stands up from the tiny cramped little chair by Jacks bedside and he  _ can’t do it.  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he presses his fist to his teeth as he almost sprints from Jack’s room. Fuck, he can’t do this, this was so fucking  _ stupid.  _ He has kids, he has kids and Ben’s only twenty-three. He can’t be looking after them, he can’t put himself in their lives like  _ that.  _ So beyond the realm of just being their babysitter, of having a role they all know they’ll grow out of having in their lives on day.

But this? Oh fuck, god no this is different. 

The life he imagined laying there in George’s arms goes up in smoke, replaced instead with the stress of babysitting times a thousand. 

He grabs his phone from the kitchen, except he doesn’t dart back upstairs. He doesn’t crawl back into George’s bed and slide the pillow out and fit himself back in George’s arms.

He grabs his bag, his keys, and he just goes.


	9. Chapter 9

George texts him at exactly 10:04 in the morning. 

Ben is, for no reason other than his soul-ravaging guilt, awake. There is nothing that stops him from staring at the ceiling, imagining George reaching out to a cold half of the bed, f the bed and finding nothing but twisted sheets. To George, half-hoping as he looks into the bathroom, the kitchen, of his face falling from his warm almost-open expression to that hardened coldness. Instinctively making coffee for two, like he confessed he does on days when Ben doesn’t work, staring at his phone, wondering what he should say.

Ten is too late for George to have gotten up.

Ten is too late for his text to not be poured over and considered.

Ten is too late for Jack not to have told the story of Mr. Ben putting him back down to sleep.

George texts him and Ben doesn’t even read it. Instead, he showers, scrubbing at his skin until it’s red and staring at the water as it swirls down the drain. This is, without a doubt and without a question: Bad.

Ben stays there until the water goes cold and he’s pruning up anyway, and then he just stands there, staring down at the drain with the water off, dripping onto the textured floor. His ass still hurts, he has marks on his hips from where George grabbed him and flipped him over, where George held him in place to plow into him with the sort of reckless abandon of someone who’s been dying to do this.

And, of course, at the thought of this, Ben, against his own better judgement, shivers. And then hates himself more. 

Yes, he wants the sex, yes he wants to spend more time with Patsy and Jack and George, and yes he wants to wake up in the mornings next to George, quiet and soft until the patter of tiny feet serve as their only warning before two bodies are flung into the bed, and yes, he wants to watch them play in the park with George’s arm over his shoulder, and  _ yes  _ he wants everything just…

Not now.

He dries off, sniffling more than he likes to think he is, and falls into bed with just the towel wrapped around his waist. He wants it, but he doesn’t want it now. 

Now he’s still got a year left until he gets his masters, now he’s got two (maybe one at the moment) jobs to balance and rent to pay, now he’s still got a roommate and a coffee machine that only works if you hold the cord right. And now he eats leftovers from the diner a few nights a week just to make sure he can pay his bills over the summer.

Now he’s… he’s barely keeping himself together. 

He can’t help keep someone’s kids alive too. 

With a sigh that’s just a little too wet, Ben rolls onto his stomach. One text from George turned into four. 

_ “Thank you for putting Jack back to sleep last night.”  _ Was the first one. 

Innocuous, the kind of quiet probing waiting for Ben to both answer to tell George why he left. But since Ben didn’t answer, George had gone ahead and texted him again. 

_ “You didn’t have to leave, you know,”  _ was the second. 

Then  _ “We should talk about this.” _

Then  _ “Or not.” _

Ben clicks his phone off and sprawls over the bed. They should talk about this, they should definitely talk about this. 

And yet, Ben does not want to talk about this. At all, in fact. 

Actually, Ben wants this to have never happened, he wants to have never taken the advertisement that Nate tore down, he wants Nate to have never seen him. He wants to have never, never, once in his life, met George Washington and his two painfully adorable children.

He just doesn’t want anything anymore. 

He picks up his phone again, staring at the lines of text.

_ “We should. I have to work tonight, though.”  _ He sends it, fully aware that he doesn’t actually work tonight. 

The response comes quickly, a very simple  _ “Alright.” _

Ben doesn’t so much as look at his phone again for the next couple hours, he sits next to Nate, playing mindless video games as neither one brings up the massive, straining elephant that’s so expertly wedged between them. Nate wins, most of the time, which is pretty much expected, they order a late lunch/early dinner to be delivered because neither one can be bothered to heave themselves up from the couch. 

The question comes in the middle of Ben shoveling a mouthful of fried rice into his mouth, making him pause and knock half the chopstick-full into his lap. 

“So what the fuck happened, then?” Nate had asked. He doesn’t even back-peddle a little in the face of Ben’s glare. 

“Nothing.”

“You came home hella late, and barely spoke a goddamn word today. Oh, and also, you’re walking like you just took a dick up your ass.” 

And Ben can feel the glare turn withering. “Really? And how exactly would you know?”

Now it’s Nate’s turn to raise a brow, looking entirely unamused as Ben’s cheeks color. Right. Halloween their third semester. It’s amazing how quickly you forget something you never talk about. “Shut up.”

“Uh-huh,” he turns back and hands Ben a napkin for his half-spilled dinner, letting Ben scowl all he wants. Which he does, freely. “So you and your boss, huh?”

“Yeah. Last night. I, uh, left, in the middle of the night.” Nate whistles and Ben feels just a little bit worse. “It wasn’t like I wanted to! I got… I ran into Jack while I was getting my phone and I guess it just freaked me out a little? The whole sleeping with a guy who has kids thing.”

“Right.” Nate scrubs his hands over his short-cropped hair, face contorting in the same way it does when his adviser sets up another check-in appointment. 

Ben watches him before staring down into his box and asking, “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just,” and the noise he makes is properly tortured, some malformed half-whine, half-groan before he finally drops his twisting hands. “You knew.”

“I knew what?”

“That he has kids, you knew he has kids because you’ve spent more than half your summer either with them or doing things for them. It’s not like it slipped your mind and you only remembered because you spotted some little shoes. C’mon dude.” It’s pleading, in a way that Nate isn’t usually.

Nate’s usually full of barbs and salt-and-lemon commentary. He’s not… he’s not the sane one, not the straight guy to give Ben actual real advice. 

But Ben was the one who just lied to his boss to avoid having a conversation about the sex they totally had last night. Suddenly, Ben doesn’t feel hungry at all anymore. He sets his take-out down and mulls that over for a little bit. “I just,” he starts, but there’s nothing at the end. 

It all drains out of him, slumping with his shoulders into a sad little heap.

Nate pats his shoulder once, then twice. “I know, dude. I know.”

########

Monday passes, and Ben doesn’t think it’s right to have this conversation on the first day of the week, so he doesn’t. George is already under enough stress, so Ben expertly dodges his calls, and ignores his voicemails until it rolls into Tuesday.

And Tuesday, well, Tuesday isn’t good either. Tuesday can’t be good because Tuesdays are never good.

Wednesday… well… Ben doesn’t have a good excuse, watching George’s contact photo (a picture of Jack and Patsy) flash on his phone’s screen in time with the buzzes of his vibrate setting. 

It’s two in the afternoon, which is weird. George should be… well… Ben doesn’t know, working? Whatever he does during the day. 

He doesn’t have an excuse other than  _ he doesn’t want to  _ for not picking up his phone. It goes to voicemail, and sure enough, a few minutes later the notification pops up. 

_ One New Voicemail _

This time, Ben clicks on it. 

_ “Benjamin it’s George… again.”  _ A heavy sort of sigh crinkles the reception.  _ “I know you’re dodging my calls, and that’s fine, I cannot say I blame you. And while I insist we discuss the… what happened, I can tell that you are far from interested in that. Just call me back to let me know if I need to find someone to cover your shift next week… or…”  _ The pause goes on for so long, that if it wasn’t for the background chatter and the trembling breath, Ben would’ve thought the line went dead.  _ “Or for the remainder of the kids summer.” _

_ “Just, call me, Benjamin.” _

There isn’t enough time before the click of the line going dead to the scratching robotic voice asking him if he wants to save or delete the message. His fingers hover over delete, but he clicks save against his better judgement.

And then, even fucking stupider. 

He calls George back. 

It barely rings once, George’s voice already on the other end by the time that Ben has it pressed against his ear.

“Hi,” is what Ben says, because there isn’t anything else he can say right now, It’s  _ Hi  _ and then nothing,  _ Hi _ and then the lingering silence sitting thick between them.

“Hello Benjamin,” comes after far too long a wait. 

Ben fiddles with the hem of his shirt, as George continues. “Did you get my messages then?”

“Yeah, I did. Sorry I was… in the shower.” God, Ben winces at the obvious lie, but thankfully, George doesn’t respond with a question as to  _ why  _ Ben was taking his shower at two in the afternoon. Or why, then, Ben had dodged his calls for two days. “I uh… I don’t know.” 

“Don’t know what?” Is George’s tired response. “Don’t know if you want to talk about it, or don’t know if you’ll be back on Monday? Or you don’t know why you left, because I have an idea.”

Ben hangs his head, the shame settling sticky over his skin, and after this he is really going to need that shower. “It was a bad idea, George and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

There’s no response but a shaking voice on the other end. Ben tries to keep his voice steady, but it doesn’t work. “George,” it’s half pleading, half desperate, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

It comes out before he can stop it, and the silence is thicker, heavier. And Ben wishes, wishes more than anything else he knows how to wish with, that he just didn’t do it. He wishes that he didn’t want him as much as he does.

He scrubs at his cheeks, pretending like he isn’t crying. 

“Ben,” it’s thick in his voice, heavy and raw, “You can’t.”

“I know, I know I can’t but I have to, George. It’s worse to do...this.”

“Why? Why is it different?”

And now it’s Ben’s turn to have nothing to say, to be lost and empty and hollow-chested. He can’t summon anything, nothing at all. He can’t tell George why, he’s certain he would understand at least a marginal amount, but he can’t say it. He can’t say how afraid he is of the idea of a deeper involvement, he can’t say how afraid he is of answering questions he doesn’t know how to answer. To the kids, to teachers, to strangers on the street asking if these are Ben’s kid cousins. 

He takes too long to answer, and George finally breaks the final silence. “I see.” This time, it’s cold. Ice drips, drips, down Ben’s spine. Never, not even on that first call, has George sounded so… impersonal. 

His hands are shaking.

“Goodbye, Benjamin.”

The line goes dead and Ben’s phone slips from his hand with a solid thud, and he buries his face in his hands.

He calls into work the next night, having immediately crawled back into bed and decided very quickly that he had no plans on getting out of it. He was in there for a few hours, alternating between wiping his face on his hands and dozing off and drafting conversations where he can take back everything he said.

It’s late when Nate comes in, knocking softly on the door jam. “Hey.”

Ben grunts from under his nest of blanket, sniffling and gripping his pillow tighter to himself. 

“That sounded pretty intense earlier,” Nate continues, coming in with a greasy-looking bag from a nearby diner. “Brought you pastrami?” 

He’s not particularly hungry, but it seems rude to turn him away, so he just scoots closer towards the edge of the bed, leaving space for Nate. He takes it, sitting down cross-legged and unloading the bag. He pulls them out and flattens the bag, using it to set the grease-soaked paper wrappings. The smell is both intoxicating and nauseating. 

Ben wants to be back in George’s house, back at his high table, back watching kids reject his grilled chicken salads in favor of mac and cheese instead. Back with sticky hands wiping themselves on his shirt and snotty noses and watching George just… George.

He hates how attached he’s gotten, hates how much he misses the idea of seeing George five days a week, every other week. 

He misses him, and he hasn’t even really lost him yet. There’s still half a week and a whole weekend before George gets a new temporary sitter, Ben still has had as much time with them all as he would have had he not just quit.

He sniffles again, adjusting his cheek so now he can watch Nate eat his own sandwich.

“Keep staring and I’m gonna eat your fries,” he says, and at least that makes Ben huff a little noise, more akin to a laugh. He snakes a hand out and takes his fries, popping out into his mouth. Still hot, but tasteless under the crushing sadness.

“I quit,” Ben says, flatly and unnecessarily. 

Nate chews thoughtfully for a bit. “I’m sorry, Ben. It seemed like you really liked working there. And really liked your boss, too.”

“I did.”

They don’t talk much else, but Nate runs his fingers through Ben’s hair a few times, letting him pick and prod at his dinner for a bit before packing up the garbage and taking it back to the kitchen. 

He calls in the day after too.

But come Saturday, Ben really figures he can’t afford this many sick days in a row and drags himself out of bed. He’s greasy and disgusting, but he gets up anyway, slumps his way into the shower and through work. It’s a grind, long and tedious, his eyes half-glazed over as he jots down orders and refills coffee mugs. He gets snipped at by a mother hauling two barely-conscious children wearing stained  _ I heart New York  _ shirts, who looks like she must be the owner of the dull-looking minivan in the parking lot. He gets hit on by either a stripper or a hooker on her way home, she leaves him her number, which he promptly loses. 

Not like he really cares either way. He hangs his apron not even a second after his clock-out time, and walks home, ignoring Nate’s calls, asking if he wants to be picked up. 

Sunday goes the same way, a long tedious evening, dragging on and on and on as Ben actually caved and took another co-workers shift this time. 

He needs the money now, he figures. Might as well. He walks home, drops into bed, and sleeps until noon. 

Monday, George doesn’t call him. Doesn’t text him. Which, Ben anticipated, it’s not like he thought he would get a long desperate call begging him to come back or anything. It’s not like he thought he would be interested himself in changing his mind. This is good, this is better. Rip it of hard and fast like a band-aid. Cut George out and make it hurt less later. Because it hurts a lot now, which just means it would be unbearable later.

Ben plans on doing a lot of nothing all of Monday, staying mindless and not thinking about George.

Except he definitely things of George. Because he thinks of the kids, he thinks of who’s watching them and who’s feeding them and who’s making sure they stay safe and clean. He thinks about who’s watching them more than he thinks he should, but he can’t get it out of his mind. The festering guilt of what if they’re bad, what if they don’t take care of them, what if something awful happens because Ben isn’t there.

But that’s absurd, Ben’s not the only decent babysitter in America, he’s not even the only one in Connecticut. 

So when George calls at seven at night, it’s a little concerning.

He stares at it while it rings, buzzing on the coffee table while another episode of  _ Friends  _ starts on Netflix. He stares too long, though, and it goes to voicemail. He sits back, but it starts buzzing again, George’s contact flashing up at him for the second time in a row.

This time, he picks up. 

George’s voice sounds wrecked, he’s panting on the other side and Ben can hear the panic, “Ben, the kids--”

He stands sharply, no idea where he’s going or what he’s doing but he snatches Nate’s keys off the counter, “What happened, where are they?”

“I don’t know, I was in the office and they’re gone. They ran away and I don’t know where they are.” Another breath that sounds frayed and ruined, that stoic coolness all but gone, “I don’t know, Ben.”

He doesn’t bother telling Nate he’s taking his car, he figures he’ll explain it later as he sprints out the door of their apartment, taking the steps four at a time. “Where would they have gone?”

“I  _ don’t know,”  _ it’s hard and snapping, a wild sort of slash that makes Ben thinks of tigers and fear. “They were upset because I told them you weren’t coming back and then wouldn’t speak to me for the rest of the night.”

Ben grinds to a halt, his phone pressed against his ear still. 

This is his fault. 

This is his fault. He decided he wasn’t coming back and the kids ran away and now, god knows where they are. They could be lost, scared, they could be hurt or hungry, there could be someone lurking around and oh god, this is his fault.

This is his fault. George is talking but it sounds warbled and wrong and underwater. “I called Martha and their other babysitters.” Ben picks that up when he focuses back in, blinking heavily as he tries to remember what he was trying to do. 

Focus, focus, Ben. Focus. Find the kids, then he can wallow in guilt.

Find the kids first. “What about the cops?”

“I thought you would know. They wanted you, is there anywhere you think they might have gone?”

Ben wracks his brain but all he can do is tread water in the swamp of guilt. “I don’t--I--” He tries but he has nothing. They kids don’t know where he lives, he never gave a hint he just-- “The park? I used to take them to a park and I told them I passed it when I went to their house they might’ve...I don’t know though, George.”

“Where is it?” 

Ben rattles off the address and slips into Nate’s car, peeling out with no abandon.

At first, when he tears into the parking lot of the park, he thinks he’s wrong, panicked eyes scanning over the deserted playground. In the face of dusk, its abandoned, the usual bustle of children screaming and running gone, leaving the whole place looking destitute and depressing. 

He almost calls George, tells him to turn around and look somewhere else, but then he spots them. Two little shadows on the swing-set, shoulders hunched and sad feet kicking at the wood chips.

He can make out the details as he gets closer, even if they don’t bother looking up. Patsy’s braids are coming loose, hiding her behind a frizzing veil of auburn. Beside her, Jack’s post-sob hiccups are barely muffled as he swipes his hand under his nose again.

Ben takes his seat beside them, the little plastic swing swaying as he does. 

He sighs and rubs his hands on his knees, waiting for them to acknowledge him. They don’t. 

“You know you really scared me, right?” His voice isn’t as strong or stable as he wanted it to be. “And your dad, too.”

His own response is the wavering breath that comes right before another rush of tears beside him. He digs in a foot to push himself a little, rocking the swing back and forth. 

“Patsy, you know you scared us?” 

She nods, pushing her hair back.

When she used her big crocodile tears before, the kind made to make George or Ben cave for sweets or an extra twenty minutes before bedtime, it was always so clean. Just big watery blue eyes, a sniffle or two and a wobbling lip. 

This wasn’t that and Ben doesn’t think he’s ever, ever, really seen her cry. Her cheeks are splotched between pink and white, cheeks puffy and slick with tears, nose red from all the rubbing and she’s already on a fresh wave, clearly. And there’s nothing he can do about it.

“Msorry,” it comes out as a wave as the force of her emotions hunches her back over with another shattering sob, face pressed into her hands.

All he can do is rub her back, slow little circles as, on the other side of her, Jack slips out of his swing and pads over instead. 

There’s maneuvering, twisting, and a whole lot of elbows to his stomach, before Jack is fully clambered up into Ben’s lap, his cheek pressed to Ben’s collar.  “Msorry too, Mr. Ben,” he hiccups, burying his face against his skin and trembling with those full-body sobs. 

“I know,” is all he can say, the rabbit-pace of his heart slowly but surely smoothing out. In its place, just the raw push of emotions swelling up faster than he can stop them. He buries his nose in Jack’s hair, chest aching as he tries to swallow down the knot of tears that is threatening to overflow. 

It feels like hours of sitting there, holding Jack in his lap and rubbing Patsy’s back until a second car screeches in, a pair of heavy footsteps starting out at a dead run in the distance before quickly fading to a brisk walk. George doesn’t say a word, falling to his knees and pulling both of them into his arms, Martha at his side.

Ben stays sitting, watching him whisper to both of them between touching their faces and kissing their foreheads and temples. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he says, this time loud enough for Ben to hear as he looks up at him. “Thank you.” It’s thick and sincere and Ben just nods, fearing that the moment he tries to talk, he’s just going to collapse into--something. Luckily, George doesn’t ask him to say anything. He unpeels himself, letting Martha continue checking and re-checking them inch by inch.

“Ben,” he breathes, leaving enough room as he approaches so Ben can stand. Which he does, brushing off his jeans. “Thank you, I don’t… there aren’t words to describe how thankful I am.”

“Well, it’s my fault, so.” It’s wet and sad and Ben can feel how thick is voice is when he tries to speak.

But George just shakes his head and shakes and shakes. “No, no it’s not.”

“I left, I stopped. I screwed up and they ran away because I ran away.” His voice really breaks at the end, tears flowing through the cracks, but George just pulls him in, tucking his head under his chin and wrapping his arms around him in an embrace that’s somehow both familiar and entirely new.

Ben presses his chin against his chest, clinging to him for a few moments before untangling himself and pulling away. He rubs his eyes, tired of this endless crying, “You should be with your kids.”

“We need to talk.” George doesn’t waste a breath, cutting Ben off to tell him that, but he looks over his shoulder after a moment nonetheless, where Martha is clinging to the two with every ounce of strength in her body. “You never said why you left, so I couldn’t give them a real reason why you were never coming back.”

“You know why I couldn’t, George,” and God, Ben really doesn’t want to have this conversation, he really doesn’t want to talk about this now. When he’s already so weak and sensitive. “You know.”

George sighs, turning to stand next to Ben instead, watching the trio there. “No one is asking you to be their father, Ben. I know it’s intimidating, the prospect of children and this responsibility. I wouldn’t ask more than you could handle and we could have worked through it.”

Ben stares at the grass instead, far too upset to even look at the kids whose hearts he shattered. “I was scared.”

“So was I. You left, Ben.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t, I wish I could take it back but I just--I don’t know how.”

A heavy, work-roughened hand very gently slips through Ben’s, twining their fingers together. He squeezes, once. “If you want, they were terrible enough for their new babysitter that she quit. And if you come over early enough, we can continue this talk.”

Ben squeezes back. “I’d like that.”

George lets him go and walks back over, crouching down to embrace his children. Ben leans against the pole of the swingset, watching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End!   
> Thank you for enjoying this fic, know I always want to talk about this on my tumblr or twitter, so please please please let me know if you ever want to talk about it!

**Author's Note:**

> Call me, babes, I love you.  
> [Tumblr](tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com)


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